Gwnr 


L 


MALCOLM. 


A  ROMANCE. 


BY 


GEORGE     MACDONALD, 

AUTHOR  OF   "ROBERT  FALCONER,"   "WILFRID  CUMBERMEDE,"  "ALEC  FORBES," 
"RANALD   BANNERMAN,"  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1875. 


CONTENTS, 


r^'4^^7 


I 


I27 


Chapter  Page 

I.  Miss  Horn 7 

II.  Barbara  Catanach 8 

III.  The  Mad  Laird 10 

IV.  Phemy  Mair 12 

V.  Lady  Florimel 15 

VI.  Duncan  Macphail 20 

VII.  Alexander  Graham 26 

VIII.  The  Swivel 31 

IX.  The  Salmon-Trout 35 

X.  The  Funeral 40 

XL  The  Old  Church 44 

XII.  The  Churchyard 47 

XIII.  The  Marquis  of  Lossie.  51 

XIV.  Meg  Partan's  Lamp 55 

XV.  The  Slope  of  the  Dune.  58 

XVL  The  Storm 62 

XVII.  The  Accusation 66 

XVIII.  The  Quarrel 69 

XIX.  Duncan's  Pipes 72 

XX.  Advances 80 

XXI.  Mediation 82 

XXII.  Whence  and  Whither  ?  86 

XXIII.  Armageddon 91 

XXIV.  The  Feast 95 

XXV.  The  Night  Watch loi 

XXVI.  Not  at  Church 105 

XXVII.  Lord  Gernon no 

XXVIII.  A  Fisher- Wedding 113 

XXIX.  Florimel  AND  Duncan...  115 

XXX.  The  Revival 122 

XXXI.  Wandering  Stars 129 

XXXII.  The  Skipper's  Chamber  133 

XXXIII.  The  Library 138 

XXXIV.  Milton,   and   the    Bay 

Mare 142 

XXXV.  Kirkbyres 144 

XXXVI.  The  Blow 149 

XXXVII.  The  Cutter 151 

XXXVIII.  The  Two  Dogs 154 

XXXIX.  CoLONSAY  Castle 157 


Chapter 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 

L. 

LI. 

LII. 

LIII. 

LIV. 

LV. 

LVI. 

LVII. 

LVIIL' 

LIX. 

lx. 

LXI. 

LXII. 

LXIII. 

LXIV. 

LXV. 
LXVI. 

LXVII. 

LXVIII. 

LXIX. 

LXX. 


Page 

The  Deil's  Winnock 160 

The  Clouded  Sapphires...  164 

Duncan's  Disclosure 170 

The  Wizard^s  Chamber...  174 

The  Hermit 177 

Mr.  Cairns  and  the  Mar- 
quis   182 

The  Baillies'  Barn 186 

Mrs.  Stewart's  Claim....  191 
The  Baillies'  Barn  again.  197 

Mount  Pisgah 202 

Lizzy  Findlay 208 

The  Laird's  Burrow 211 

Cream  or  Scum? 214 

The  Schoolmaster's  Cot- 
tage   215 

One  Day 219 

The  Same  Night 224 

Something  Forgotten 226 

The  Laird's  Guest 228 

Malcolm  and  Mrs.  Stew- 
art   232 

An  Honest  Plot 234 

The  Sacrament 240 

Miss  Horn   and   the   Pi- 
per   245 

The  Cuttlefish  and  the 

Crab 247 

Miss     Horn    and     Lord 

Lossie 250 

The  Laird   and   his  Mo- 
ther   258 

The  Laird's  Vision 259 

The  Cry  from  the  Cham- 
ber   262 

Feet  of  Wool 266 

Hands  of  Iron 269 

The    Marquis    and    the 

Schoolmaster 272 

End  or  Beginning? 276 

5 


2847?? 


MALCOLM. 


:p./^:e^t   z. 


CHAPTER  I. 
MISS   HORN. 

"  1\T  ■^'  "^  •    ^  ^^^  ^"^^  feelin's,   I'm 

1  ^  thankfu'  to  say.  I  never  kent 
ony  guid  come  o'  them.  They're  a  ter- 
rible sicht  i'  the  gait." 

"  Naebody  ever  thoucht  o'  layin'  't  to 
yer  chairge,  mem." 

"  'Deed,  I  aye  had  eneuch  adu  to  du 
the  thing  I  had  to  du,  no  to  say  the 
thing  'at  naebody  wad  du  but  mysel*. 
I  hae  had  nae  leisur'  for  feelin's  an' 
that,"  insisted  Miss  Horn. 

But  here  a  heavy  step  descending  the 
stair  just  outside  the  room  attracted  her 
attention,  and,  checking  the  flow  of  her 
speech  perforce,  with  three  ungainly 
strides  she  reached  the  landing. 

"  Watty  Witherspail  !  Wattie  !"  she 
called  after  the  footsteps  down  the  stair. 

"Yes,  mem,"  answered  a  gruff  voice 
from  below. 

"  Wattie,  whan  ye  fess  the  bit  boxie, 
jist  pit  a  hemmer  an'  a  puckle  nails  i' 
yer  pooch  to  men'  the  hen-hoose-door. 
The  tane  maun  be  atten't  till  as  weel's 
the  tither." 

"  The  bit  boxie  "  was  the  coffin  of  her 
third  cousin,  Griselda  Campbell,  whose 
body  lay  in  the  room  on  her  left  hand 
as  she  called  down  the  stair.  Into  that 
on  her  right  Miss  Horn  now  re-entered, 
to  rejoin  Mrs.  Mellis,  the  wife  of  the 
principal  draper  in  the  town,  who  had 
called  ostensibly  to  condole  with  her, 
but  really  to  see  the  corpse. 

"  Aih  !  she  was  taen  yoong  !"  sighed 
the  visitor,  with  long-drawn  tones  and 
a  shake  of  the  head,  implying  that  there- 
in lay  ground  of  complaint,  at  which 
poor  mortals  dared  but  hint. 

"  No  that  yoong,"  returned  Miss  Horn. 
"  She  was  upo'  the  edge  o'  aucht  an' 
thirty." 

"  Weel,  she  had  a  sair  time  o'  't." 

"  No  that  sair,  sae  far  as  I  see — an' 
wha  sud  ken  better  ?     She's  had  a  bien 


doon-sittin'  {^sheltered  quarters),  and 
sud  hae  had  as  lang's  I  was  to  the  fore. 
Na,  na ;  it  was  nowther  sae  young  nor 
yet  sae  sair." 

"  Aih  !  but  she  was  a  patient  crater 
wi'  a'  flesh,"  persisted  Mrs.  Mellis,  as 
if  she  would  not  willingly  be  foiled  in 
the  attempt  to  extort  for  the  dead  some 
syllable  of  acknowledgment  from  the 
lips  of  her  late  companion. 

"  'Deed  she  was  that ! — a  wheen  ower 
patient  wi'  some.  But  that  cam'  o'  haein 
mair  hert  nor  brains.  She  had  feelin's 
gin  ye  like — and  to  spare.  But  I  never 
took  ower  ony  o'  the  stock.  It's  a  pity 
she  hadna  the  jeedgment  to  match,  for 
she  never  misdoobted  onybody  eneuch. 
But  I  wat  it  disna  maitter  noo,  for  she's 
gane  whaur  it's  less  wantit.  For  ane  'at 
has  the  hairmlessness  o'  the  doo  i'  this 
ill-wuUed  warl',  there's  a  feck  o'  ten  'at 
has  the  wisdom  o'  the  serpent.  An'  the 
serpents  mak  sair  wark  wi'  the  doos — 
lat  alane  them  'at  flees  into  the  verra 
mou's  o'  them." 

"  Weel,  ye're  jist  richt  there,"  said 
Mrs.  Mellis.  "  An'  as  ye  say,  she  was 
aye  some  easy  to  perswaud.  I  hae  nae 
doobt  she  believed  to  the  verra  last  he 
wad  come  back  and  mairry  her." 

"  Come  back  and  mairry  her  !  Wha  or 
what  div  ye  mean  ?  I  jist  tell  ye,  Mistress 
Mellis — an'  it's  weel  ye're  named — gin 
ye  daur  to  hint  at  ae  word  o'  sic  clavers, 
it's  this  side  o'  this  door  o'  mine  ye  s'  be 
less  acquant  wi'." 

As  she  spoke,  the  hawk  eyes  of  Miss 
Horn  glowed  on  each  side  of  her  hawk 
nose,  which  grew  more  and  more  hook- 
ed as  she  glared,  while  her  neck  went 
craning  forward  as  if  she  were  on  the 
point  of  making  a  swoop  on  the  offender. 
Mrs.  Mellis's  voice  trembled  with  some- 
thing very  like  fear  as  she  replied  : 

"  Gude  guide  's,  Miss  Horn  !  What 
hae  I  said  to  gar  ye  look  at  me  sae  by 
ordinar  's  that  ?" 

7 


MALCOLM. 


"Said!"  repeated  Miss  Horn,  in  a 
tone  that  revealed  both  annoyance  with 
herself  and  contempt  for  her  visitor. 
"  There's  no  a  claver  in  a'  the  country- 
side but  ye  maun  fess  't  hame  aneth  yer 
oxter,  as  gin  't  wei^e  the  prodigal  afore 
he  repentit.  Ye  s'  get  sma'  thanks  for 
sic  like  here.  An'  her  lyin'  there  as 
she'll  lie  till  the  jeedgment-day,  puir 
thing !" 

"  I'm  sure  I  meant  no  offence,  Miss 
Horn,"  said  her  visitor.  "I  thocht  a' 
body  kent  'at  she  was  ill  aboot  him." 

"  Aboot  wha,  i'  the  name  o'  the  father 
o'  lees  ?" 

"  Ow,  aboot  that  lang-leggit  doctor 
'at  set  oot  for  the  Ingies,  an'  dee'd  afore 
he  wan  across  the  equautor.  Only  fouk 
said  he  was  nae  mair  deid  nor  a  halvert 
worm,  an'  wud  be  hame  whan  she  was 
merried." 

"  It  's  a'  lees  frae  heid  to  fut,  an'  frae 
hert  to  skin." 

"  Weel,  it  was  plain  to  see  she  dwyn- 
ed  awa  efter  he  gaed,  an'  never  was  her- 
sel'  again — ye  dinna  deny  that." 

"  It's  a'  havers,"  persisted  Miss  Horn, 
but  in  accents  considerably  softened. 
"  She  cared  no  more  aboot  the  chiel 
nor  I  did  mysel'.  She  dwyned,  I  grant 
ye,  an'  he  gaed  awa,  I  grant  ye  ;  but 
the  win'  blaws  an'  the  water  rins,  an' 
the  tane  has  little  to  do  wi'  the  tither." 

"Weel,  weel;  I'm  sorry  I  said  ony- 
thing  to  offen'  ye,  an'  I  canna  say  mair. 
W i'  yer  leave.  Miss  Horn,  I'll  jist  gang 
an'  tak'  a  last  leuk  at  her,  puir  thing  !" 

"  'Deed,  ye  s'  du  naethingo'  the  kin'! 
I  s'  lat  nobody  glower  at  her  'at  wad 
gang  and  spairge  sic  havers  aboot  her, 
Mistress  Mellis.  To  say  'at  sic  a  doo 
as  my  Grizel,  puir,  saft-hertit,  winsome 
thing,  wad  hae  luikit  twise  at  ony  sic  a 
serpent  as  him  !  Na,  na,  mem  !  Gang 
yer  wa's  hame,  an'  come  back  straucht 
frae  yer  prayers  the  morn's  mornin'. 
By  that  time  she'll  be  quaiet  in  her  cof- 
fin, and  I'll  be  quaiet  i'  my  temper. 
Syne  I'll  lat  ye  see  her — maybe. — I 
wiss  1  was  weel  rid  o'  the  sicht  o'  her, 
for  I  canna  bide  it.  Lord,  I  canna  bide 
it." 

These  last  words  were  uttered  in  a 
murmured  aside,  inaudible  to  Mrs.  Mol- 


lis, to  whom,  however,  they  did  not  ap- 
ply, but  to  the  dead  body.  She  rose  not- 
withstanding in  considerable  displeas- 
ure, and  with  a  formal  farewell  walked 
from  the  room,  casting  a  curious  glance 
as  she  left  it  in  the  direction  of  that 
where  the  body  lay,  and  descending  the 
stairs  as  slowly  as  if  on  every  step  she 
deliberated  whether  the  next  would  bear 
her  weight.  Miss  Horn,  who  had  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  head  of  the  stair, 
watched  her  out  of  sight  below  the 
landing,  when  she  turned  and  walked 
back  once  more  into  the  parlor,  but 
with  a  lingering  look  toward  the  oppo- 
site room,  as  if  she  saw  through  the 
closed  door  what  lay  white  on  the  white 
bed. 

"  It's  a  God's  mercy  I  hae  no  feel- 
in's,"  she  said  to  herself.  "To  even  my 
bonny  Grizel  to  sic  a  lang  kyte-clung 
chiel  as  yon  !  Aih,  puir  Grizel !  She's 
eane  like  a  knotless  threid." 


CHAPTER  II. 
BARB.A.R.A.    CATANACH. 

Miss  Horn  was  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  the  latch  of  the  street  door, 
and  sprung  from  her  chair  in  anger. 

"  Canna  they  lat  her  sleep  for  five 
meenutes  ?"  she  cried  aloud,  forgetting 
that  there  was  no  fear  of  rousing  her 
any  more. — "  It'll  be  Jean  come  in  frae 
the  pump,"  she  reflected,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause ;  but,  hearing  no  footstep 
along  the  passage  to  the  kitchen,  con- 
cluded— "  It's  no  her,  for  she  gangs 
aboot  the  hoose  like  the  fore  half  o'  a 
new-shod  cowt;"  and  went  down  the 
stair  to  see  who  might  have  thus  pre- 
sumed to  enter  unbidden. 

In  the  kitchen,  the  floor  of  which  was 
as  white  as  scrubbing  could  make  it, 
and  sprinkled  with  sea-sand — under  the 
gayly-painted  Dutch  clock,  which  went 
on  ticking  as  loud  as  ever,  though  just 
below  the  dead — sat  a  woman  about 
sixty  years  of  age,  whose  plump  face  to 
the  first  glance  looked  kindly,  to  the 
second,  cunning,  and  to  the  third,  evil. 
To  the  last  look  the  plumpness  appear- 
ed unhealthy,  suggesting  a  doughy  in- 


>-»» 


MALCOLM. 


dentation  to  the  finger,  and  its  color 
was  also  pasty.  Her  deep-set,  black- 
bright  eyes,  glowing  from  under  the 
darkest  of  eyebrows,  which  met  over 
her  nose,  had  something  of  a  fascinat- 
ing influence — so  much  so  that  at  a  first 
interview  one  was  not  likely  for  a  time 
to  notice  any  other  of  her  features.  She 
rose  as  Miss  Horn  entered,  buried  a  fat 
fist  in  a  soft  side,  and  stood  silent. 

"  Weel  ?"  said  Miss  Horn,  interroga- 
tively, and  was  silent  also. 

"  I  thocht  ye  micht  want  a  cast  o'  my 
callin',"  said  the  woman. 

"  Na,  na;  there's  no  a  han'  'at  s'  lay 
finger  upo'  the  bairn  but  mine  ain," 
said  Miss  Horn.  "  I  had  it  a'  ower,  my 
lee  lane,  afore  the  skreigh  o'  day.  She's 
lyin'  quaiet  noo — verra  quaiet — waitin' 
upo'  Watty  Witherspail.  Whan  he  fesses 
ham.e  her  bit  boxie,  we  s'  hae  her  laid 
canny  intill  't,  an'  hae  dune  wi'  't." 

"  Weel,  mem,  for  a  leddy-born,  like 
yersel',  I  maun  say,  ye  tak  it  unco  com- 
posed !" 

"  I'm  no  awaur,  Mistress  Catanach, 
o'  ony  necessity  laid  upo'  ye  to  say  yer 
min'  i'  this  hoose.  It's  no  expeckit.  But 
what  for  sud  I  no  tak'  it  wi'  composur'  ? 
We'll  hae  to  tak'  oor  ain  turn  er  lang, 
as  composed  as  we  hae  the  skiel  o',  and 
gang  oot  like  a  lang-nibbit  can'le — ay, 
an  lea'  jist  sic  a  memory  ahin'  some  o' 
's,  Bawby." 

"  I  kenna  gin  ye  mean  me,  Miss 
Horn,"  said  the  woman;  "but  it's  no 
that  muckle  o'  a  memory  I  expec'  to 
lea'  ahin'  me." 

"  The  less  the  better,"  muttered  Miss 
Horn  ;  but  her  unwelcome  visitor  went 
on  : 

"Them  'at  's  maist  i'  ;«j/ debt  kens 
least  aboot  it;  and  their  mithers  canna 
be  said  to  hae  muckle  to  be  thankfu'  for. 
It's  God's  trowth,  I  ken  waur  nor  ever  I 
did,  mem.  A  body  in  my  trade  canna 
help  fa'in'  amo'  ill  company  whiles,  for 
we're  a'  born  in  sin,  an'  brocht  furth  in  in- 
iquity, as  the  Buik  says ;  in  fac',  it's  a'  sin 
thegither :  we  come  o'  sin  an'  we  gang 
for  sin;  but  ye  ken  the  likes  o'  me  maunna 
clype  [tell  tales).  A'  the  same,  gien  ye 
dinna  tak  the  help  o'  my  han',  ye  winna 
refuse  me  the  sicht  o'  my  een,  puir  thing !" 


"  There's  nane  sail  luik  upon  her  deid 
'at  wasna  a  pleesur'  till  her  livin'  ;  an' 
ye  ken  weel  eneuch,  Bawby,  she  cudna 
thole  the  sicht  o  you.'' 

"An'  guid  rizzon  had  she  for  that, 
gien  a'  'at  gangs  throu'  my  heid  or  I 
fa'  asleep  i'  the  lang  mirk  nichts  be  a 
hair  better  nor  ane  o'  the  auld  wife's 
fables  that  the  holy  Buik  maks  sae  licht 
o'!" 

"What  mean  ye?"  demanded  Miss 
Horn,  sternly  and  curtly. 

"  I  ken  what  I  mean  mysel',  an'  ane 
that's  no  content  wi'  that,  bude  ill  be  a 
howdie  [inidwife).  I  wad  fain  hae  got- 
ten a  fancy  oot  o'  my  heid  that's  been 
there  this  mony  a  lang  year,  and  for 
that  I  wad  fain  hae  seen  her.  But 
please  yersel',  mem,  gien  ye  winna  be 
neeborly ;  thof,  maybe,  ye're  mair  obli- 
gated nor  ye  ken,  for  a'  ye  luik  at  me 
sae  sair  asklent." 

"Ye  s'  no  gang  near  her — no  to  save 
ye  frae  a'  the  ill  dreams  that  ever  geth- 
ered  aboot  a  sin-stappit  bowster!"  cried 
Miss  Horn,  and  drew  down  her  long 
upper  lip  in  a  strong  arch. 

"  Ca  cannie  !  ca  cannie  !"  [drive 
gently),  said  Bawby.  "  Dinna  anger 
me  ower  sair,  for  I  ant  but  mortal. 
Fowk  tak  a  heap  frae  you.  Miss  Horn, 
'at  they'll  tak  frae  nane  ither,  for  yer 
temper's  weel  kent,  an'  little  made  o' ; 
but  it's  an  ill-faured  thing  to  anger  the 
howdie — sae  muckle  lies  upo'  hei-;  an' 
I'm  no  i'  the  tune  to  put  up  wi'  muckle 
the  nicht.  I  wonner  at  ye  bein'  sae 
oonneebor-like — at  sic  a  time  tu,  wi'  a 
corp  i'  the  hoose  !" 

"Gang  awa — gang  oot  o't:  it's  my 
hoose,"  said  Miss  Horn,  in  a  low,  hoarse 
voice,  restrained  from  rising  to  tempest 
pitch  only  by  the  consciousness  of  what 
lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  ceiling  above 
her  head.  "  I  wad  as  sune  lat  a  cat  in- 
till the  deid-chaumer  to  gang  loupin' 
ower  the  corp,  or  may  be  waur,  as  I 
wad  lat  yersel'  intill  't,  Bawby  Cata- 
nach;  an'  there's'till  ye!" 

At  this  moment  the  opportune  en- 
trance of  Jean  afforded  fitting  occasion 
to  her  mistress  for  leaving  the  room 
without  encountering  the  dilemma  of 
either  turning  the  woman  out— a  pro- 


MALCOLM. 


ceeding  which  the  latter,  from  the  way 
in  which  she  set  her  short,  stout  figure 
square  on  the  floor,  appeared  ready  to 
resist — or  of  herself  abandoning  the 
field  in  discomfiture.  She  turned  and 
marched  from  the  kitchen  with  her  head 
in  the  air,  and  the  gait  of  one  who  had 
been  insulted  on  her  own  premises. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  parlor,  still  red- 
faced  and  wrathful,  when  Jean  entered, 
and,  closing  the  door  behind  her,  drew 
near  to  her  mistress,  with  a  narrative, 
commenced  at  the  door,  of  all  she  had 
seen,  heard  and  done  while  "  oot  an' 
aboot  i'  the  toon."  But  Miss  Horn  in- 
terrupted her  the  moment  she  began  to 
speak. 

"  Is  that  woman  furth  the  hoose, 
Jean  ?"  she  asked,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  awaited  her  answer  in  the  affirm- 
ative as  a  preliminary  condition  of  all 
further  conversation. 

"  She's  gane,  mem,"  answered  Jean  — 
adding  to  herself  in  a  wordless  thought, 
"  I'm  no  sayin'  whatir." 

"She's  a  woman  I.  wadna  hae  ye 
throng  wi',  Jean." 

"  I  ken  no  ill  o'  her,  mem,"  returned 
Jean. 

"  She's  eneuch  to  corrup'  a  kirkyaird !" 
said  her  mistress,  with  more  force  than 
fitness.  Jean  was  on  the  shady  side  of 
fifty,  and  more  likely  to  have  already 
yielded  than  to  be  liable  to  a  first  assault 
of  corruption. 

But  little  did  Miss  Horn  think  how 
useless  was  her  warning,  or  where  Bar- 
bara Catanach  was  at  that  very  moment. 
Trusting  to  Jean's  cunning,  as  well  she 
might,  she  was  in  the  dead-chamber, 
and  standing  over  the  dead.  She  had 
folded  back  the  sheet — not  from  the  face, 
but  from  the  feet — and  raised  the  night- 
dress of  fine  linen  in  which  the  love  of 
her  cousin  had  robed  the  dead  for  the 
repose  of  the  tomb. 

"  It  wad  hae  been  tellin'  her,"  she 
muttered,  "  to  hae  spoken  Bawby  fair  ! 
I'm  no  used  to  be  fa'en  foul  o'  that 
gait.  I  s'  be  even  wi'  her  yet,  I'm 
thinkin' — the  auld  speldin' !  Losh  !  an' 
Praise  be  thankit !  there  it's  !  It's  there  ! 
—a  wee  darker,  but  the  same — jist 
whaur  I  could  ha'  laid  the  pint  o'  my 


finger  upo'  't  i'  the  mirk  !  Noo  lat  the 
worms  eat  it,"  she  concluded,  as  she 
folded  down  the  linen  of  shroud  and 
sheet — "  an'  no  mortal  ken  o'  't  but  my- 
sel'  an'  him  'at  bude  till  hae  seen  't,  gin 
he  was  a  hair  better  nor  Glenkindie's 
man  i'  the  auld  ballant!" 

The  instant  she  had  rearranged  the 
garments  of  the  dead,  she  turned  and 
made  for  the  door  with  a  softness  of  step 
that  strangely  contrasted  with  the  pon- 
derousness  of  her  figure,  and  indicated 
therefore  great  muscular  strength  ;  open- 
ed it  with  noiseless  circumspection  to 
the  width  of  an  inch,  peeped  from  the 
crack,  and  seeing  the  opposite  door  still 
shut,  stepped  out  with  a  swift,  noiseless 
swing  of  person  and  door  simultane- 
ously, closed  the  latter  behind  her,  stole 
down  the  stairs,  and  left  the  house.  Not 
a  board  creaked,  not  a  latch  clicked  as 
she  went.  She  stepped  into  the  street 
as  sedately  as  if  she  had  come  from 
paying  to  the  dead  the  last  duties  of 
her  calling,  the  projected  front  of  her 
person  appearing  itself  aware  of  its  dig- 
nity as  the  visible  sign  and  symbol  of  a 
good  conscience  and  kindly  heart. 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE   MAD    LAIRD. 

When  Mistress  Catanach  arrived  at 
the  opening  of  a  street  which  was  just 
opposite  her  own  door,  and  led  steep 
toward  the  sea-town,  she  stood,  and 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hooded  hand 
although  the  sun  was  far  behind  her, 
looked  out  to  sea.  It  was  the  forenoon 
of  a  day  of  early  summer.  The  larks 
were  many  and  loud  in  the  skies  above 
her — for,  although  she  stood  in  a  street, 
she  was  only  a  few  yards  from  the  green 
fields — but  she  could  hardly  have  heard 
them,  for  their  music  was  not  for  her. 
To  the  north,  whither  her  gaze — if  gaze 
it  could  be  called — was  directed,  all  but 
cloudless  blue  heavens  stretched  over 
an  all  but  shadowless  blue  sea ;  two 
bold,  jagged  promontories,  one  on  each 
side  of  her,  far  apart,  formed  the  bay  ; 
between  that  on  the  west  and  the  sea- 
town  at  her  feet  lay  a  great  curve  of  yel- 


MALCOLM. 


low  sand,  upon  which  the  long  breakers, 
born  of  last  night's  wind,  were  still  roar- 
ing from  the  north-east,  although  the  gale 
had  now  sunk  to  a  breeze — cold  and  of 
doubtful  influence.  From  the  chimneys 
of  the  fishermen's  houses  below  ascend- 
ed a  yellowish  smoke,  which,  against  the 
blue  of  the  sea,  assumed  a  dull  green 
color  as  it  drifted  vanishing  toward  the 
south-west.  But  Mrs.  Catanach  was 
looking  neither  at  nor  for  anything ; 
she  had  no  fisherman  husband,  or  any 
other  relative,  at  sea  ;  she  was  but  re- 
volving something  in  her  unwholesome 
mind  ;  and  this  was  her  mode  of  con- 
cealing an  o,peration  which  naturally 
would  have  been  performed  with  down- 
bent  head  and  eyes  on  the  ground. 

While  she  thus  stood  a  strange  figure 
drew  near,  approaching  her  with  step 
almost  as  noiseless  as  that  with  which 
she  had  herself,  made  her  escape  from 
Miss  Horn's  house.  At  a  few  yards 
distance  from  her  it  stood,  and  gazed 
up  at  her  countenance  as  intently  as 
she  seemed  to  be  gazing  on  the  sea. 
It  was  a  man  of  dwarfish  height  and 
uncertain  age  with  a  huge  hump  upon 
his  back,  features  of  great  refinement,  a 
long  thin  beard,  and  a  forehead  unnatu- 
rally large,  over  eyes  which,  although 
of  a  pale  blue,  mingled  with  a  certain 
mottled  milky  gleam,  had  a  pathetic, 
dog-like  expression.  Decently  dressed 
in  black,  he  stood  with  his  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  his  trowsers,  gazing  immo- 
vably in  Mrs.  Catanach's  face.  Becom- 
ing suddenly  aware  of  his  presence,  she 
glanced  downward,  gave  a  great  start 
and  a  half  scream,  and  exclaimed  in  no 
gentle  tones, 

"  Whaur  come_y^  frae  ?" 

It  was  neither  that  she  did  not  know 
the  man,  nor  that  she  meant  any  of- 
fence :  her  words  were  the  mere  em- 
bodiment of  the  annoyance  of  startled 
surprise  ;  but  their  effect  was  peculiar. 

Without  a  single  other  motion  he 
turned  abruptly  on  one  heel,  gazed  sea- 
ward with  quick-flushed  cheeks  and 
glowing  eyes,  and,  apparently  too  polite 
to  refuse  an  answer  to  the  evidently  un- 
pleasant question,  replied  in  low,  almost 
sullen  tones : 


"  I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  come  frae.  Ye 
ken  'at  I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  come  frae. 
1  dinna  ken  whaur  ye  come  frae.  I 
dinna  ken  whaur  onybody  comes  frae." 

"  Hoot,  laird  !  nae  oftence  !  "  returned 
Mrs.  Catanach.  "  It  was  yer  ain  wyte. 
What  gart  ye  stan'  glowerin'  at  a  body 
that  gait,  ohn  telled  them  'at  ye  was 
there  ?" 

"  I  thocht  ye  was  luikin'  whaur  ye 
cam  frae,"  returned  the  man  in  tones 
apologetic  and  hesitating. 

"  'Deed  I  fash  wi'  nae  sic  freits,"  said 
Mrs.  Catanach. 

"  Sae  lang's  ye  ken  whaur  ye  're  gaein' 
till,"  suggested  the  man. 

"  Toots  !  I  fash  as  little  wi'  that  either, 
and  ken  jist  as  muckle  about  the  tane 
as  the  tither,"  she  answered  with  a  low 
oily  guttural  laugh  of  contemptuous  pity. 

"  I  ken  mair  nor  that  mysel',  but  no 
muckle,"  said  the  man.  "  I  dinna  ken 
whaur  I  cam  frae,  and  I  dinna  ken  whaur 
I'm  gaun  till  ;  but  I  ken  'at  I'm  gaun 
whaur  I  cam  frae.  That  Stan's  to  rizzon, 
ye  see ;  but  they  telled  me  'at  ye  kenned 
a'  about  whaur  we  a'  cam  frae." 

"  Deil  a  bit  o'  't !"  persisted  Mrs.  Cat- 
anach, in  tones  of  repudiation.  "  What 
care  I  whaur  I  cam  frae,  sae  lang  's — " 

"  Sae  lang  's  what,  gien  ye  please  ?" 
pleaded  the  man,  with  a  childlike  en- 
treaty in  his  voice. 

"  Weel  —  gien  ye  wull  hae  't — sae 
lang  's  I  cam  frae  my  mither,"  said  the 
woman,  looking  down  on  the  inquirer 
with  a  vulgar  laugh. 

The  hunchback  uttered  a  shriek  of 
dismay,  and  turned  and  fled  ;  and,  as  he 
turned,  long,  thin,  white  hands  flashed 
out  of  his  pockets,  clasped  his  ears,  and 
intertwined  their  fingers  at  the  back  of  his 
neck.  With  a  marvelous  swiftness  he  shot 
down  the  steep  descent  toward  the  shore. 

"  The  deil  's  in't  'at  I  bude  to  anger 
him!"  said  the  woman,  and  walked 
away,  with  a  short  laugh  of  small  satis- 
faction. 

The  style  she  had  given  the  hunch- 
back was  no  nickname.  Stephen  Stew- 
art was  laird  of  the  small  property  and 
ancient  house  of  Kirkbyres,  of  which  his 
mother  managed  the  affairs — hardly/t^r 
her  son,  seeing  that,  beyond  his  clothes 


MALCOLM. 


and  five  pounds  ayear  of  pocket-money, 
he  derived  no  personal  advantage  from 
his  possessions.  He  never  went  near 
his  own  house,  for,  from  some  unknown 
reason,  plentifully  aimed  at  in  the  dark 
by  the  neighbors,  he  had  such  a  dislike 
to  his  mother  that  he  could  not  bear  to 
hear  the  name  of  mother,  or  even  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  relationship. 

Some  said  he  was  a  fool  ;  others  a 
madman  ;  some  both  ;  none,  however, 
said  he  was  a  rogue  ;  and  all  would  have 
been  willing  to  allow  that  whatever  it 
might  be  that  caused  the  difference 
between  him  and  other  men,  through- 
out the  disturbing  element  floated  the 
mist  of  a  sweet  humanity. 

Along  the  shore,  in  the  direction  of 
the  great  rocky  promontory  that  closed 
in  the  bay  on  the  west,  with  his  hands 
still  clasped  over  his  ears,  as  if  the  awful 
word  were  following  him,  he  flew  rather 
than  fled.  It  was  nearly  low  water,  and 
the  wet  sand  afforded  an  easy  road  to 
his  flying  feet.  Betwixt  sea  and  shore, 
a  sail  in  the  offing  the  sole  other  mov- 
ing thing  in  the  solitary  landscape,  like 
a  hunted  creature  he  sped,  his  footsteps 
melting  and  vanishing  behind  him  in 
the  half-quick  sand. 

Where  the  curve  of  the  water-line 
turned  northward  at  the  root  of  the  pro- 
montory, six  or  eight  fishing-boats  were 
drawn  up  on  the  beach  in  various  stages 
of  existence.  One  was  little  more  than 
half  built,  the  fresh  wood  shining  against 
the  background  of  dark  rock.  Another 
was  newly  tarred  ;  its  sides  glistened 
with  the  rich  shadowy  brown,  and  filled 
the  air  with  a  comfortable  odor.  Another 
wore  age-long  neglect  on  every  plank 
and  seam  ;  half  its  props  had  sunk  or 
decayed,  and  the  huge  hollow  leaned 
low  on  one  side,  disclosing  the  squalid 
desolation  of  its  lean-ribbed  and  naked 
interior,  producing  all  the  phantasmic 
effect  of  a  great  swampy  desert;  and  old 
pools  of  water,  overgrown  with  a  green 
scum,  lay  in  the  hollows  between  its  rot- 
ting timbers,  while  the  upper  planks  were 
baking  and  cracking  in  the  sun.  They 
were  huge  open  boats,  carrying  about 
ten  tons,  and  rowed  by  eight  men 
with   oars   of  tremendous    length    and 


weight,  with  which  they  had  to  toil  in- 
deed when  they  could  riot  use  their  lug 
sails.  Near  where  they  lay  a  steep  path 
ascended  the  cliff,  whence  through  grass 
and  ploughed  land  it  led  across  the  pro- 
montory to  the  fishing  village  of  Scaur- 
nose,  which  lay  on  the  other  side 
of  it.  There  the  mad  laird,  or  Mad 
Humpy,  as  he  was  called  by  the  baser 
sort,  often  received  shelter,  chiefly  from 
the  family  of  a  certain  Joseph  Mair,  one 
of  the  most  respectable  inhabitants  of 
the  place,  which,  however,  at  this  time, 
was  not  specially  remarkable  for  any  of 
the  Christian  virtues. 

The  way  he  now  pursued  was  very 
rocky  and  difficult,  lying  close  under 
the  cliffs  of  the  headland.  He  passed 
the  boats,  going  between  them  and  the 
cliffs,  without  even  a  glance  at  the  two 
men  who  were  at  work  on  the  unfinish- 
ed boat.  One  of  them  was  his  friend 
Joseph  Mair.  They  ceased  their  work 
for  a  moment  to  look  after  him. 

"That's  the  puir  laird  again,"  said 
Joseph,  the  instant  he  was  beyond  hear- 
ing. "Something's  wrang  wi'  him.  I 
wonner  what's  come  ower  him  !" 

"  I  haena  seen  him  for  a  while  noo," 
returned  the  other.  "  They  tell  me  'at 
his  mither  made  him  ower  to  the  deil 
afore  he  cam  to  the  light ;  and  sae,  aye 
as  his  birthday  comes  roun',  Sawtan 
gets  the  pooer  ower  him.  Eh,  but  he's 
a  fearsome  sicht  when  he's  ta'en  that 
gait!"  continued  the  speaker.  "  I  met 
him  ance  i'  the  gloamin',  jist  ower  by 
the  toon,  wi'  his  een  glowerin'  like  uily 
lamps,  an'  the  slaver  rinnin'  doon  his 
lang  baird.  I  jist  laup  as  gien  I  had 
seen  the  muckle  Sawtan  himsel'." 

"  Ye  not  na  [needed  not)  hae  dune 
that,"  was  the  reply.  "He's  jist  as 
hairmless,  e'en  at  the  warst,  as  ony 
lamb.  He's  but  a  puir  creatur'  wha's 
tribble's  ower  Strang  for  him — that's  a*. 
Sawtan  has  as  little  to  du  wi'  him  as  wi' 
ony  man  I  ken." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
P  1 1  E  M  V    MAIR. 

With  eyes  that  stared  as  if  they  and 
not  her  ears  were  the  organs  of  hearing, 


MALCOLM. 


13 


this  talk  was  heard  by  a  child  of  about 
ten  years  of  age,  who  sat  in  the  bottom 
of  the  ruined  boat,  like  a  pearl  in  a  de- 
caying oyster-shell,  one  hand  arrested 
in  the  act  of  dabbling  in  a  green  pool, 
the  other  on  its  way  to  her  lips  with  a 
mouthful  of  the  sea-weed,  there  called 
dulse.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Joseph 
Mair  just  mentioned — a  fisherman  who 
had  been  to  sea  as  a  man-of-war's  man, 
in  consequence  of  which  his  to-name  or 
nickname  was  Blue  Peter,  and  having 
been  found  capable,  had  been  employed 
as  carpenter's  mate,  and  had  come  to 
be  very  handy  with  his  tools.  Having 
saved  a  little  money  by  serving  in  an- 
other man's  boat,  he  was  now  build- 
ing one  for  himself.  He  was  a  dark- 
complexioned,  foreign -looking  man, 
with  gold  rings  in  his  ears,  which  he 
said  enabled  him  to  look  through  the 
wind  without  being  blinded  by  the 
watering  of  his  eyes.  Unlike  most  of 
the  fishermen  upon  that  coast  at  the 
time,  he  was  a  sober  and  indeed  thought- 
ful man,  ready  to  listen  to  the  voice  of 
reason  from  any  quarter.  His  fellows 
were,  in  general,  men  of  hardihood  and 
courage,  encountering  as  a  mere  matter 
of  course  such  perilous  weather  as  the 
fishers  on  a  great  part  of  our  coasts 
would  have  declined  to  meet.  During 
the  fishing  season  they  were  diligent  in 
their  calling,  and  made  a  good  deal  of 
money  ;  but  when  the  weather  was  such 
that  they  could  not  go  to  sea,  when  their 
nets  were  in  order,  and  nothing  special 
requiring  to  be  done,  they  would  have 
a  bout  of  hard  drinking,  and  spend  a 
great  portion  of  what  ought  to  have 
been  their  provision  for  the  winter. 
The  women  were  in  general  coarse  in 
manners  and  rude  in  speech  ;  often  of 
great  strength  and  courage,  and  of 
strongly-marked  character.  They  were 
almost  invariably  the  daughters  of  fish- 
ermen, for  a  wife  taken  from  among  the 
rural  population  would  have  been  all 
but  useless  in  regard  of  the  peculiar 
duties  required  of  her.  If  these  were 
less  dangerous  than  those  of  their  hus- 
bands, they  were  quite  as  laborious,  and 
less  interesting.  The  most  severe  con- 
sisted in  carrying  the  fish  into  the  country 


for  sale  in  a  huge  creel  or  basket,  which 
when  full  was  sometimes  more  than  a 
man  could  lift  to  place  on  the  woman's 
back.  With  this  burden,  kept  in  its 
place  by  a  band  across  her  chest,  she 
would  walk  as  many  as  twenty  miles, 
arriving  at  some  inland  town  early  in 
the  forenoon,  in  time  to  dispose  of  her 
fish  for  the  requirements  of  the  day.  I 
may  add  that  her  eldest  child  was  prob- 
ably born  within  a  few  weeks  after  her 
marriage  ;  but  infidelity  was  almost  un- 
known. 

In  some  respects,  although  in  none 
of  the  good  qualities,  Mrs.  Mair  was  an 
exception  to  her  class.  Herself  the 
daughter  of  a  fisherman,  her  mother 
had  been  the  daughter  of  a  small  farm- 
er, and  she  bad  well-to-do  relations  in 
an  inland  parish  ;  how  much  this  fact 
was  concerned  in  the  result  it  would  be 
hard  to  say,  but  certainly  she  was  one 
of  those  elect  whom  Nature  sends  into 
the  world  for  the  softening  and  elevation 
of  her  other  children.  She  was  still  slight 
and  graceful,  with  a  clear  complexion 
and  the  prettiest  teeth  possible.  Long 
before  this  time  she  must  have  lost  all 
her  complexion  and  most  of  her  grace 
had  it  not  been  for  two  reasons  :  her 
husband's  prudence  had  rendered  hard 
work  less  imperative,  while  he  had  a 
care  even  of  her  good  looks  altogether 
unique ;  and  he  had  a  rough,  honest 
sister  who  lived  with  them,  and  w'nom 
it  would  have  been  no  kindness  to  keep 
from  the  hardest  work,  seeing  it  was 
only  through  such  that  she  could  have 
found  a  sufficiency  of  healthy  interest 
in  life.  Annie  Mair  assisted  with  the 
nets,  and  the  cleaning  and  drying  of 
the  fish,  of  which  they  cured  consider- 
able quantities  :  these,  with  her  house- 
hold and  maternal  duties,  afforded  her 
ample  occupation.  Their  children 
were  well  trained,  and  being,  from  the 
narrowness  of  their  house-accommoda- 
tion, far  more  with  their  parents  than 
would  otherwise  have  been  the  case, 
heard  a  good  deal  to  make  them  think 
after  their  faculty. 

The  mad  laird  was,  as  I  have  said,  a 
visitor  at  their  house  oftener  than  any- 
where else.     On  such  occasions  he  slept 


14 


MALCOLM. 


in  a  garret  accessible  by  a  ladder  from 
the  ground  floor,  which  consisted  only 
of  a  kitchen  and  a  closet.  Little  Phemy 
Mair  was  therefore  familiar  with  his  ap- 
pearance, his  ways,  and  his  speech,  and 
was  a  favorite  with  him,  although  hither- 
to his  shyness  has  been  sufficient  to  pre- 
vent any  approach  to  intimacy  even  with 
a  child  of  ten. 

From  speedy  exhaustion  the  poor 
fellow  soon  ceased  his  wild  running. 
As  he  stopped  he  withdrew  his  hands 
from  his  ears,  and  in  rushed  the  sound 
of  the  sea,  the  louder  that  the  caverns 
of  his  brain  had  been  so  long  closed  to 
its  entrance.  With  a  moan  of  dismay 
he  once  more  pressed  his  palms  against 
them,  and  thus  deafened,  shouted  with 
a  voice  of  agony  into  the  noise  of  the 
rising  tide  :  "  I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  come 
frae  !"  after  which  cry,  wrung  from  the 
grief  of  human  ignorance,  he  once  more 
took  to  his  heels,  though  with  far  less 
swiftness  than  before,  and  fled  stumb- 
ling and  scrambling  over  the  rocks. 

Scarcely  had  he  vanished  from  view 
of  the  boats,  when  Phemy  scrambled 
out  of  her  big  mussel-shell.  Its  up- 
heaved side  being  toward  the  boat  at 
which  her  father  was  at  work,  she  escaped 
unperceived,  and  so  ran  along  the  base 
of  the  promontory,  where  the  rough  way 
was  perhaps  easier  to  the  feet  of  a  child 
content  to  take  smaller  steps  and  climb 
or  descend  by  the  help  of  more  insig- 
nificant inequalities.  She  came  within 
sight  of  the  laird  just  as  he  turned  into 
the  mouth  of  a  well-known  cave  and 
vanished. 

Phemy  was  one  of  those  rare  and 
blessed  natures  which  have  endless  cour- 
age because  they  have  no  distrust,  and 
she  ran  straight  into  the  cave  after  him, 
without  even  stopping  to  look  in. 

It  was  not  a  very  interesting  cave  at 
first  sight.  The  strata  of  which  it  was 
composed,  upheaved  almost  to  the  per- 
pendicular, shaped  an  opening  like  the 
half  of  a  Gothic^rch  divided  vertically 
and  leaning  over  a  little  to  one  side, 
which  rose  to  its  whole  height,  and 
seemed  to  lay  open  every  corner  of  it 
to  a  single  glance.  This  large  entrance 
allowed  abundance  of  light  and  air  in 


the  cave,  which  in  length  was  only  about 
four  or  five  times  its  width.  The  floor 
was  perfectly  dry,  consisting  of  hard 
rock,  with  a  trodden  covering  of  some 
earthy  stratum — probably  all  that  re- 
mained of  what  had  once  filled  the 
hollow.  The  walls  and  roof  were  suf- 
ficiently jagged  with  projections  and 
dark  with  recesses,  but  there  was  little 
to  rouse  any  frightful  fancies. 

When  Phemy  entered  it  the  laird  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  But  she  went 
straight  to  the  back  of  the  cave,  to  its 
farthest  visible  point.  There  she  rounded 
a  projection  and  began  an  ascent  which 
only  familiarity  with  rocky  ways  could 
have  enabled  such  a  child  to  accom- 
plish. At  the  top  she  passed  through 
another  opening,  and  by  a  longer  and 
more  gently  sloping  descent  reached 
the  floor  of  a  second  cave,  as  level  and 
nearly  as  smooth  as  a  table.  On  her 
left  hand,  what  light  managed  to  creep 
through  the  tortuous  entrance  was 
caught  and  reflected  in  a  dull  glimmer 
from  the  undefined  surface  of  a  well  of 
fresh  water  which  lay  in  a  sort  of  basin  in 
the  rock  ;  and  on  a  bedded  stone  beside 
it  sat  the  laird,  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his 
hump  upheaved  above  his  head,  like 
Alount  Sinai  over  that  of  Christian  in 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

As  his  hands  were  still  pressed  on  his 
ears,  he  heard  nothing  of  Phemy's  ap- 
proach, and  she  stood  for  a  while  star- 
ing at  him  in  the  vague  glimmer,  ap- 
parently with  no  anxiety  as  to  what  was 
to  come  next. 

Weary  at  length — for  the  forlorn  man 
continued  movelessly  sunk  in  his  own 
thoughts,  or  what  he  had  for  such — the 
eyes  of  the  child  began  to  wander  about 
the  darkness,  to  which  they  had  already 
got  so  far  accustomed  as  to  make  the 
most  of  the  scanty  light.  Presently  she 
fancied  she  saw  something  glitter,  away 
in  the  darkness — two  things  :  they  must 
be  eyes  ! — the  eyes  of  an  otter  or  a  pole- 
cat, in  which  creatures  the  caves  along 
the  shore  abounded.  Seized  with  sudden 
fright,  she  ran  to  the  laird  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  crying,  "Leuk, 
laird,  leuk!" 


MALCOLM. 


15 


He  started  to  his  feet  and  gazed  be- 
wildered at  the  child,  rubbing  his  eyes 
once  and  again.  She  stood  between  the 
well  and  the  entrance,  so  that  all  the 
light  there  was,  gathered  upon  her  pale 
face. 

"Whaur  do  ye  come  frae  ?"  he  cried. 

"I  cam  frae  the  auld  boat,"  she 
answered. 

"  What  do  ye  want  wi'  me  ?" 

"  Naelhing,  sir  :  I  only  cam  to  see  hoo 
ye  was  gettin'  on.  I  wadna  hae  dis- 
turbit  ye,  sir,  but  I  saw  the  twa  een  o'  a 
wuUcat,  or  sic  like,  glowerin'  awa  yon- 
ner  i'  the  mirk,  an'  they  fleyt  me  'at  I 
grippit  ye." 

"  Weel,  weel ;  sit  ye  doon,  bairnie," 
said  the  mad  laird  in  a  soothing  voice  : 
"  the  wuUcat  sanna  touch  ye.  Ye're  no 
fleyt  at  me,  are  ye  r" 

"Eh,  na!"  answered  the  child.  "What 
for  sud  I  be  fleyt  at  you,  sir  ?  I'm  Phe- 
my  Wair." 

"Eh,  bairnie!  it's  you,  is't  ?"  he  re- 
turned in  tones  of  satisfaction,  for  he 
had  not  hitherto  recognized  her.  "  Sit 
ye  doon,  sit  ye  doon,  an'  we'll  see  aboot 
it  a'." 

Phemy  obeyed,  and  seated  herself  on 
the  nearest  projection.  The  laird  placed 
himself  beside  her,  and  once  more  buried 
his  face,  but  not  his  ears,  in  his  hands. 
Nothing  sought  to  enter  those  ears,  how- 
ever, but  the  sound  of  the  rising  tide,  for 
Phemy  sat  by  him  in  the  faintly  glim- 
mering dusk,  as  without  fear  felt,  so 
without  word  spoken. 

The  evening  drew  on,  and  the  night 
came  down,  but  all  the  effect  of  the 
growing  darkness  was  but  to  draw  the 
child  gradually  nearer  to  her  uncouth 
companion,  until  at  length  her  hand 
stole  into  his,  her  head  sank  upon  his 
shoulder,  his  arm  went  round  her  to 
hold  her  safe,  and  thus  she  fell  fast 
asleep.  After  a  while,  the  laird,  coming 
to  a  knowledge  of  her  condition,  gently 
roused  her  and  took  her  home,  where 
they  found  her  father  and  mother  in 
much  concern  at  her  absence.  On  their 
way  the  mad  laird  warned  his  com- 
panion, in  strange  yet  comprehensible 
utterance,  to  say  nothing  of  where  she 
had  found  him,  for  if  she  exposed  his 


place  of  refuge,  wicked  people  would 
take  him,  and  he  should  never  see  her 
again. 


CHAPTER    V. 
LADY    FLORIMEI.. 

The  sun  had  been  up  for  some  time 
in  a  cloudless  sky.  The  wind  had 
changed  to  the  south,  and  wafted  soft 
country  odors  to  the  shore,  in  place 
of  sweeping  to  inland  farms  the  scents 
of  sea- weed  and  broken  salt  waters, 
mingled  with  a  suspicion  of  icebergs. 
From  what  was  called  the  Seaion,  or 
sea- town,  of  Portlossie,  a  solitary  figure 
was  walking  westward  along  the  sands, 
which  bordered  the  shore  from  the  root 
of  the  promontory  of  Scaurnose  to  the 
little  harbor  which  lay  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Seaton.  Beyond  the  harbor  the 
rocks  began  again,  bold  and  high,  of 
a  gray  and  brown  hard  stone,  and  after 
a  mighty  sweep,  shot  out  northward, 
and  closed  in  the  bay  on  the  east  with 
a  second  great  promontory.  The  long 
curved  strip  of  sand  was  the  only  open 
portion  of  the  coast  for  miles  :  the  rest 
was  all  closed  in  with  high  rocky  cliffs. 
At  this  one  spot  the  coasting  vessel 
gliding  past  gained  a  pleasant  peep  of 
open  fields,  belts  of  wood  and  farm- 
houses, with  here  and  there  a  great 
house  glimpsing  from  amidst  its  trees. 
In  the  distance  one  or  two  bare  solitary 
hills,  imposing  in  aspect  only  from  their 
desolation,  rose  to  the  height  of  over  a 
thousand  feet,  but  their  form  gave  no 
effect  to  their  altitude. 

On  this  open  part  of  the  shore,  par- 
allel with  its  line,  and  at  some  distance 
beyond  the  usual  high-water  mark,  the 
waves  of  ten  thousand  northern  storms 
had  cast  up  a  long  dune  or  bank  of 
sand,  terminating  toward  the  west  with- 
in a  few  yards  of  a  huge  solitary  rock 
of  the  ugly  kind  called  conglomerate. 
It  had  been  separated  from  the  roots  of 
the  promontory  by  the  rush  of  waters  at 
unusually  high  tides,  which  often  in 
winter  rounded  the  rock,  and  running 
down  behind  the  dune,  turned  it  into  a 
lone  island.  The  sand  on  the  inland  side 


i6 


MALCOLM. 


of  it,  which  was  now  covered  with  short 
sweet  grass,  browsed  on  by  sheep,  and 
with  the  largest  and  reddest  of  daisies, 
was  thus  often  swept  by  wild  salt  waves 
in  winter,  and  at  times,  when  the  north- 
ern wind  blew  straight  from  the  regions 
of  endless  snow,  lay  a  sheet  of  gleaming 
ice. 

Over  this  grass  came  the  figure  I  have 
mentioned,  singing.  On  his  left  hand 
the  ground  rose  to  the  high  road  ;  on 
his  right  was  the  dune,  interlaced  and 
bound  together  by  the  long  clasping 
roots  of  the  coarse  bent,  without  which  its 
sands  would  have  been  the  sport  of  every 
wind  that  blew.  It  shut  out  from  him 
all  sight  of  the  sea,  but  the  moan  and 
rush  of  the  rising  tide  sounded  close  be- 
hind it.  At  his  back  rose  the  town  of 
Portlossie,  high  above  the  harbor  and 
the  sea-town,  with  its  houses  of  gray  and 
brown  stone,  roofed  with  blue  slates  and 
red  tiles.  It  was  no  highland  town — 
scarce  one  within  it  could  speak  the 
highland  tongue,  yet  down  from  its 
high  streets  on  the  fitful  air  of  the 
morning  now  floated  intermittently  the 
sound  of  bagpipes — borne  winding  from 
street  to  street,  and  loud  blown  to  wake 
the  sleeping  inhabitants  and  let  them 
know  that  it  was  now  six  of  the  clock. 

He  was  a  youth  of  about  twenty,  with 
a  long,  swinging,  heavy-footed  stride, 
which  took  in  the  ground  rapidly.  He 
was  rather  tall,  and  large-limbed.  His 
dress  was  more  like  that  of  a  fisherman 
than  any  other,  but  hardly  admitted 
of  classification,  consisting  of  corduroy 
trowsers,  much  stained,  a  shirt  striped 
blue  and  white,  and  a  rough  pea-jacket, 
which,  slung  across  his  shoulder,  he 
carried  by  one  sleeve.  On  his  head  he 
wore  a  broad  blue  bonnet,  with  a  tuft 
of  scarlet  in  the  centre. 

His  face  was  more  than  handsome — 
not  finely  cut,  but  large-featured,  with  a 
look  of  mingled  nobility  and  ingenuous- 
ness— the  latter  amounting  to  simplicity, 
or  even  innocence  ;  while  the  clear  out- 
look from  his  full  and  well-opened  hazel 
eyes  indicated  both  courage  and  prompt- 
itude. His  dark  brown  hair  came  in 
large  curling  masses  from  under  his  bon- 
net. It  was  such  a  form  and  face  as  would 


have  drawn  every  eye  in  a  crowded 
thoroughfare. 

About  the  middle  of  the  long  sand- 
hill its  top  was  cut  into  a  sort  of  wide 
embrasure,  in  which  stood  an  old-fash- 
ioned brass  swivel-gun  :  when  he  came 
undftr  it,  the  lad  sprung  up  the  sloping 
side  of  the  dune,  seated  himself  on  the 
gun,  drew  from  his  trowsers  a  large 
silver  watch,  regarded  it  steadily  for  a 
{t'f^  minutes,  replaced  it,  took  from 
his  pocket  a  flint  and  steel,  kindled 
therewith  a  bit  of  touch-paper,  and  ap- 
plied it  to  the  vent  of  the  swivel.  Fol- 
lowed a  great  roar.  But  through  its 
echoes  a  startled  cry  reached  his  ear, 
and  looking  along  the  shore  to  discover 
whence  it  came,  he  spied  a  woman  on 
a  low  rock  that  ran  a  little  way  out  into 
the  water.  She  had  half  risen  from  a 
sitting  posture,  and  apparently  her  cry 
was  the  result  of  the  discovery  that 
the  rising  tide  had  overreached  and 
surrounded  her.  He  rushed  from  the 
sand-hill,  crying,  as  he  approached  her, 
"  Dinna  be  in  a  hurry,  mem:  bide  till 
I  come  to  ye  ;"  and  plunging  straight 
into  the  water  struggled  through  the 
deepening  tide,  the  distance  being  too 
short  and  the  depth  almost  too  shallow 
for  swimming.  There  was  no  danger 
whatever,  but  the  girl  might  well  shrink 
from  plunging  into  the  clear  beryl  depth 
in  which  swayed  the  sea-weed  clothing 
the  slippery  slopes  of  the  rock.  The 
youth  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment, 
scarcely  noticed  the  bare  feet  she  had 
been  bathing  in  the  water,  heeded  as 
little  the  motion  of  the  hand  which 
waved  him  back,  caught  her  in  his 
arms  like  a  baby,  and  had  her  safe  on 
the  shore  ere  she  could  utter  a  word  ; 
nor  did  he  stop  until  he  had  carried  her 
to  the  slope  of  the  sand-hill.  There  he 
set  her  gently  down,  and  without  a  sus- 
picion of  the  liberty  he  was  taking,  and 
filled  only  with  a  passion  of  service,  was 
proceeding  to  dry  her  feet  with  the  jacket 
which  he  had  dropped  there  as  he  ran 
to  her  assistance. 

"  Let  me  alone,  pray,"  said  the  girl 
with  a  half-amused  indignation,  draw- 
ing back  her  feet  and  throwing  down 
a  book  she  carried,  that  she  might  the 


MALCOLM. 


17 


better  hide  them  with  her  skirt.  But 
although  she  shrank  from  his  devotion, 
she  could  neither  mistake  it  nor  help 
being  pleased  with  his  kindness.  Prob- 
ably she  had  never  before  been  indebt- 
ed to  such  an  ill-clad  individual  of  the 
human  race  ;  but  even  in  such  a  dis- 
advantageous costume  she  could  hardly 
help  seeing  that  he  was  a  fine  fellow. 
Nor  was  the  impression  disturbed  when 
he  opened  his  mouth  and  spoke  in  the 
broad  dialect  of  the  country — softened 
and  refined  a  little  by  the  feeling  of  her 
presence — for  she  had  no  associations 
with  it  as  yet  to  make  her  regard  its 
homeliness  as  vulgarity. 

"Where's  yer  stockin's,  mem?"  he 
said,  using  his  best  English. 

"You  gave  me  no  time  to  bring  them 
away,  you  caught  me  up  so — rudely," 
answered  the  girl,  half  querulously,  but 
in  such  lovely  speech  as  had  never 
before  greeted  the  ears  of  the  Scotch 
lad. 

Before  the  words  were  well  beyond 
her  lips  he  was  already  on  his  way  back 
to  the  rock,  running  with  great,  heavy- 
footed  strides.  The  abandoned  shoes 
and  stockings  were  now  in  imminent 
danger  of  being  floated  off  by  the  ris- 
ing water.  He  dashed  in,  swam  a  few 
strokes,  caught  them  up,  regained  the 
shore,  and,  leaving  a  wet  track  all  the 
way  behind  him,  but  carrying  the  res- 
cued clothing  at  arm's  length  before 
him,  rejoined  their  owner.  He  spread 
his  jacket  out  before  her,  laid  the  shoes 
and  stockings  upon  it,  and,  observing 
that  she  continued  to  keep  her  feet  hid- 
den under  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  turned 
his  back,  and  stood. 

"Why  don't  you  go  away?"  said  the 
girl,  venturing  one  set  of  toes  from  under 
their  tent,  but  hesitating  to  proceed  far- 
ther in  the  business. 

Without  a  word  or  a  turn  of  the 
head  he  walked  away. 

Either  flattered  by  his  absolute  obedi- 
ence, and  persuaded  that  he  was  a  true 
squire,  or  unwilling  to  forego  what 
amusement  she  might  gain  from  him, 
she  drew  in  her  half-issuing  foot,  and, 
certainly  urged  in  part  by  an  inherited 
disposition  to  tease,  spoke  again. 


"You're  not  going  away  without 
thanking  me  ?"  she  said. 

"What  for,  mem?"  he  returned  sim- 
ply, standing  stock-still  with  his  back 
toward  her. 

"You  needn't  stand  so.  You  don't 
think  I  would  go  on  dressing  while  you 
remained  in  sight  ?" 

"  I  was  as  good's  awa',  mem,"  he  said, 
and,  turning  a  glowing  face,  looked  at 
her  for  a  moment,  then  cast  his  eyes  on 
the  ground. 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean  by  not 
thanking  me,"  she  insisted. 

"  They  wad  be  dull  thanks,  mem,  that 
war  thankit  afore  I  kenned  what  for." 

"  For  allowing  you  to  carry  me  ashore, 
of  course." 

"Be  thankit,  mem,  wi'  a'  my  hert. 
Will  I  gang  doon  o'  my  k-nees  ?" 

"No.  Why  should  you  go  on  your 
knees  ?" 

"  'Cause  ye're  'maist  ower  bonny  to 
luik  at  stan'in',  mem,  an'  I'm  feared 
for  angerin'  ye." 

"  Don't  say  ma'am  to  me  :  I'm  not 
a  married  woman." 

"What  am  I  to  say,  than,  mem? — I 
ask  yer  pardon,  mem." 

"  Say  •  my  lady.'  That's  how  people 
speak  to  me." 

"  I  thocht  ye  bude  [bcJiovcd)  to  be 
somebody  by  ordinar',  my  leddy ! 
That'll  be  hoo  ye're  so  terrible  bonny," 
he  returned,  with  some  tremulousness 
in  his  tone.  "  But  ye  maun  put  on  yer 
hose,  my  leddy,  or  ye'll  get  yer  feet 
cauld,  and  that's  no  guid  for  the  likes 
o'  you." 

The  form  of  address  she  prescribed, 
conveyed  to  him  no  definite  idea  of  rank. 
It  but  added  intensity  to  the  notion  of 
her  being  a  lady,  as  distinguished  from 
one  of  the  women  of  his  own  condition 
in  life. 

"And  pray  what  is  to  become  of 
you,''  she  returned,  "  with  your  clothes 
as  wet  as  water  can  make  them  ?" 

"  The  saut  water  kens  me  ower  weel 
to  do  me  ony  ill,"  returned  the  lad.  "  I 
gang  weet  to  the  skin  mony  a  day  frae 
mornin'  till  nicht,  an'  mony  a  nicht  frae 
nicht  till  mornin' — at  the  heerin'  fishin', 
ye  ken,  my  leddy." 


i8 


MALCOLM. 


Now  what  could  tempt  her  to  talk 
in  such  a  familiar  way  to  a  creature 
like  him — human  indeed,  but  separated 
from  her  by  a  gulf  more  impassable  far 
than  that  which  divided  her  from  the 
thrones,  principalities  and  powers  of 
the  upper  regions  ?  And  how  is  the 
fact  to  be  accounted  for  that  here  she 
put  out  a  dainty  foot,  and  reaching  for 
one  of  her  stockings  began  to  draw  it 
gently  over  the  said  foot  ?  Either  her 
sense  of  his  inferiority  was  such  that 
his  presence  affected  her  no  more  than 
that  of  a  dog,  or,  possibly,  she  was 
tempted  to  put  his  behavior  to  the  test. 
He,  on  his  part,  stood  quietly  regarding 
the  operation,  either  that,  with  the  in- 
stinct of  an  inborn  refinement,  he  was 
aware  he  ought  not  to  manifest  more 
shamefacedness  than  the  lady  herself, 
or  that  he  was  hardly  more  accustomed 
to  the  sight  of  gleaming  fish  than  the 
bare  feet  of  maidens:  anyhow,  in  abso- 
lute simplicity,  he  went  on  : 

"  I'm  thinkin',  my  lady,  that  sma'  fut 
o'  yer  ain  has  danced  mony  a  braw 
dance  on  mony  a  braw  flure." 

"  How  old  do  you  take  me  for,  then  ?" 
she  returned,  and  went  on  drawing  the 
garment  over  her  foot  by  the  shortest 
possible  stages. 

"  Ye'll  no  be  much  ower  twenty,"  he 
said. 

"  I'm  only  sixteen,"  she  returned, 
laughing  merrily. 

"What  w/// ye  be  or  ye  behaud  !"  he 
exclaimed  after  a  brief  pause  of  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Do  you  ever  dance  in  this  part  of 
the  country  ?"  she  asked,  heedless  of 
his  surprise. 

"  No  that  muckle,  at  least  amo'  the 
fisher-folks,  excep'  it  be  at  a  weddin'. 
I  was  at  ane  last  nicht." 

"  And  did  you  dance  ?" 

"  'Deed  did  I,  my  leddy.  I  danced 
the  maist  o'  the  lasses  clean  afif  o'  their 
legs." 

"  What  made  you  so  cruel  ?" 

"  Weel,  ye  see,  mem, — I  mean  my 
leddy — fowk  said  I  was  ill  aboot  the 
bride ;  an'  sae  I  bude  to  dance  to  put 
that  cot  o'  their  heids." 

"  And  how  much  truth  was  there  in 


what  they  said  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  sly 
glance  up  in  the  handsome,  now  glow- 
ing face. 

"  Gien  there  was  ony,  there  was  unco 
little,"  he  replied.  "The  chield's  wal- 
come  till  her  for  me.  But  she  was  the 
bonniest  lassie  we  had. — It  was  what 
they  ca'  a  penny  waddin',"  he  went  on, 
as  if  willing  to  change  the  subject. 

"And  what's  a  penny  wedding?" 

"  It's  a  kin'  o'  a  custom  amo'  the 
fishers.  There's  some  gey  puir  fowk 
anion'  's,  ye  see,  an'  whan  a  tvva  o'  them 
merries,  the  lave  o'  's  wants  to  gie  them 
a  bit  o'  a  start  like.  Sae  we  a'  gang  to 
the  weddin',  an'  eats  an'  drinks  plenty, 
an'  pays  for  a'  that  we  hae  ;  an'  they 
mak'  a  guid  profit  oot  o'  't,  for  the  things 
doesna  cost  them  nearhan'  sae  muckle 
as  we  pay.  So  they  hae  a  guid  han'fu' 
ower  for  the  plenishin'." 

"And  what  do  they  give  you  to  eat 
and  drink .-'"  asked  the  girl,  making 
talk. 

"  Ow  skate  an'  mustard  to  eat,  an' 
whusky  to  drink,"  answered  the  lad, 
laughing,  "  But  it's  mair  for  the  fun.  I 
dinna  care  muckle  aboot  whusky  an' 
that  kin'  o'  thing  mysel'.  It's  the  fiddles 
an'  the  dancin'  'at  I  like." 

"  You  have  music,  then  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  jist  the  fiddles  an'  the  pipes." 

"The  bagpipes,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  my  gran'father  plays  t/icjn." 

"  But  you're  not  in  the  Higljlands 
here :  how  come  you  to  have  bag- 
pipes ?" 

"  It's  a  stray  bag,  an'  no  more.  But 
the  fowk  here  likes  't  weel  eneuch,  an' 
hae  't  to  wauk  them  ilka  mornin'.  Yon 
was  my  gran'father  ye  heard  afore  I 
fired  the  gun.  Yon  was  his  pipes  wauk- 
in'  them,  honest  fowk." 

"And  what  made  you  fire  the  gun  in 
that  reckless  way  ?  Don't  you  know 
it  is  very  dangerous  ?" 

"Dangerous,  mem — my  leddy,  I 
mean  !  There's  nacthing  intiU't  but  a 
pennyworth  o'  blastin'  pooder.  It  wadna 
blaw  the  froth  afif  o'  the  tap  o'  a  jaw  '" 
{/>i7Am'). 

"  It  nearly  blew  me  out  of  my  small 
wits,  though." 

"  I'm  verra  sorry  it  frichtit  ye.     But 


MALCOLM. 


19 


gien  I  had  seen  j-e  I  could  na  hae  helpit 
it,  for  I  bude  to  fire  the  gun." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  quite  ;  but  I 
suppose  you  mean  that  it  was  your  busi- 
ness to  fire  the  gun." 

"  Yes,  my  leddy." 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  it's  been  decreet  i'  the  toon- 
cooncil  that  at  sax  0'  the  clock  ilka 
mornin'  that  gun's  to  be  fired.  Ye  see 
it's  a  royal  burgh,  this,  an'  it  costs  but 
aboot  a  penny,  an'  it's  gran'  like  to  hae 
a  sma*  cannon  to  fire.  Gien  I  was  to 
neglec'  it,  my  gran'father  wad  gang  on 
skirlin' — what's  the  English  for  skirlin  , 
my  leddy — skirlin'  o'  the  pipes  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  But  from  the  sound 
of  the  word  I  should  suppose  it  stands 
for  screaming." 

"  Ay,  that's  it ;  only  screamin'%  no 
sae  guid  as  skirlin'.  My  gran'father's 
an  auld  man,  as  I  was  gaein'  to  say, 
an'  has  hardly  breath  eneuch  to  fill  the 
bag;  but  he  wad  be  efter  dirkin'  ony- 
body  'at  said  sic  a  thing,  and  till  he 
heard  that  gun  he  wad  gang  on  blawin' 
though  he  sud  burst  himsel'.  There's 
naebody  kens  the  smeddum  in  an  auld 
Hielan'man." 

By  the  time  the  conversation  had 
reached  this  point  the  lady  had  got  her 
shoes  on,  had  taken  up  her  book  from 
the  sand,  and  was  now  sitting  with  it  in 
her  lap.  No  sound  reached  them  but 
that  of  the  tide,  for  the  scream  of  the 
bagpipes  had  ceased  the  moment  the 
swivel  was  fired.  The  sun  was  grow- 
ing hot,  and  the  sea,  although  so  far  in 
the  cold  north,  was  gorgeous  in  purple 
and  green,  suffused  as  with  the  over- 
powering pomp  of  a  peacock's  plumage 
in  the  sun.  Away  to  the  left  the  solid 
promontory  trembled  against  the  hori- 
zon, as  if  ready  to  melt  away  between 
the  bright  air  and  the  lucid  sea  that 
fringed  its  base  with  white.  The  glow 
of  a  young  summer  morning  pervaded 
earth  and  sea  and  sky,  and  swelled  the 
heart  of  the  youth  as  he  stood  in  uncon- 
scious bewilderment  before  the  self-pos- 
session of  the  girl.  She  was  younger 
than  he,  knew  far  less  that  was  worth 
knowing,  yet  had  a  world  of  advantage 
over  him  —  not  merely  from  the  effect 


of  her  presence  on  one  who  had  never 
seen  anything  half  so  beautiful,  but  from 
a  certain  readiness  of  surface  thought, 
combined  with  the  sweet  polish  of  her 
speech,  and  an  assurance  of  superiority 
which  appeared  to  lift  her,  like  one  of 
the  old  immortals,  far  above  the  level 
of  the  man  whom  she  favored  with  her 
passing  converse.  What  in  her  words, 
as  here  presented  only  to  the  eye,  may 
seem  bricsqueness  or  even  forwardness, 
was  so  tempered,  so  colored,  so  inter- 
preted by  the  tone  of  naivete  in  which 
she  spoke,  that  it  could  give  no  offence. 
Whatever  she  said  sounded  in  the 
youth's  ears  as  absolute  condescension. 
As  to  her  personal  appearance,  the  lad 
might  well  have  taken  her  for  twenty, 
for  she  looked  more  of  a  woman  than, 
tall  and  strongly-built  as  he  was,  he 
looked  of  a  man.  She  was  rather  tall, 
rather  slender,  finely  formed,  with  small 
hands  and  feet,  and  full  throat.  Her 
hair  was  of  a  dark  brown  ;  her  eyes  of 
such  a  blue  that  no  one  could  have  sug- 
gested gray;  her  complexion  fair  —  a 
little  freckled,  which  gave  it  the  warm- 
est tint  it  had  ;  her  nose  nearly  straight, 
her  mouth  rather  large  but  well  formed, 
and  her  forehead,  as  much  of  it  as  was 
to  be  seen  under  a  garden-hat,  rose  with 
promise  above  a  pair  of  dark  and  finely- 
penciled  eyebrows. 

The  description  I  have  here  given  oc- 
cupies the  space  of  a  brief  silence,  during 
which  the  lad  stood  motionless,  like  one 
waiting  further  command. 

"Why  don't  you  go?"  said  the  lady. 
"  I  want  to  read  my  book." 

He  gave  a  great  sigh,  as  if  waking 
from  a  pleasant  dream,  took  off  his 
bonnet  with  a  clumsy  movement  which 
yet  had  in  it  a  grace  worthy  of  a  Stuart 
court,  and  turned  toward  the  sea-town. 

When  he  had  gone  about  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards,  he  looked  back  invol- 
untarily. The  lady  had  vanished.  He 
concluded  that  she  had  crossed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  mound  ;  but  when  he 
had  gone  so  far  on  the  way  to  the  village 
as  to  clear  the  eastern  end  of  the  sand- 
hill, and  there  turned  and  looked  up  its 
southern  slope,  she  was  still  nowhere  to 
be  seen.     The  old  highland  stories  of 


MALCOLM. 


his  grandfather  crowded  back  upon  him, 
and,  ahogether  human  as  she  had  ap- 
peared, he  almost  doubted  whether  the 
sea  from  which  he  had  thought  he  res- 
cued her  was  not  her  native  element. 
The  book,  however,  not  to  mention  the 
shoes  and  stockings,  were  against  the 
supposition.  Anyhow,  he  had  seen  a 
vision  of  some  order  or  other,  as  cer- 
tainly as  if  an  angel  from  heaven  had 
appeared  to  him  :  the  waters  of  his  mind 
had  been  troubled  with  a  new  sense  of 
grace  and  beauty,  giving  an  altogether 
fresh  glory  to  existence. 

Of  course,  no  one  would  dream  of 
falling  in  love  with  an  unearthly  crea- 
ture, even  an  angel ;  at  least,  something 
homely  must  mingle  with  the  glory  ere 
that  become  possible  ;  and  as  to  this  girl, 
the  youth  could  scarcely  have  regarded 
her  with  a  greater  sense  oi  far-off-7iess 
had  he  known  her  for  the  daughter  of  a 
king  of  the  sea — one  whose  very  ele- 
ment was  essentially  death  to  him  as  life 
to  her.  Still  he  walked  home  as  if  the 
heavy  boots  he  wore  were  wings  at  his 
heels,  like  those  of  the  little  Eurus  or 
Boreas  that  stood  blowing  his  trumpet 
forever  in  the  round  open  temple  which 
from  the  top  of  a  grassy  hill  in  the  park 
overlooked  the  sea-town. 

"  Sic  een  !"  he  kept  saying  to  himself; 
"an  sic  sma'  white  ban's!  an'  sic  a 
bonny  fut !  Eh  !  hoo  she  wad  glitter 
throu'  the  water  in  a  bag  net !  Faith  ! 
gien  she  war  to  sing  '  come  doon  '  to  me, 
I  wad  gang.  Wad  that  be  to  lowse  baith 
sowl  an'  body,  I  wonner  ?  I'll  see  what 
Maister  Graham  says  to  that.  It's  a  fine 
question  to  put  till  'im :  '  Gien  a  body 
was  to  gang  wi'  a  mermaid,  wha  they 
say  has  nae  sowl  to  be  saved,  wad  that 
be  the  loss  o'  his,  as  weel's  o'  the  bodily 
life  o'  'm  ?'  " 


CHAPTER   VI. 
DUNCAN    MACl'HAIL. 

The  sea-town  of  Portlossie  was  as 
irregular  a  gathering  of  small  cottages 
as  could  be  found  on  the  surface  of  the 
globe.  They  faced  every  way,  turned 
their  backs  and  gables  every  way — only 
of  the  roofs  could  you  predict  the  po- 


sition ;  were  divided  from  each  other  by 
every  sort  of  small,  irregular  space  and 
passage,  and  looked  like  a  national  as- 
sembly debating  a  constitution.  Close 
behind  the  Seaton,  as  it  was  called,  ran 
a  highway,  climbing  far  above  the  chim- 
neys of  the  village  to  the  level  of  the 
town  above.  Behind  this  road,  and  sep- 
arated from  it  by  a  high  wall  of  stone, 
lay  a  succession  of  heights  covered  with 
grass.  In  front  of  the  cottages  lay  sand 
and  sea.  The  place  was  cleaner  than 
most  fishing-villages,  but  so  closely  built, 
so  thickly  inhabited,  and*  so  pervaded 
with  "a  very  ancient  and  fish-like 
smell,"  that  but  for  the  besom  of  the 
salt  north  wind  it  must  have  been  un- 
healthy. Eastward  the  houses  could  ex- 
tend no  farther  for  the  harbor,  and  west- 
ward no  farther  for  a  small  river  that 
crossed  the  sands  to  find  the  sea — dis- 
cursively and  merrily  at  low  water,  but 
with  a  sullen,  submissive  mingling  when 
banked  back  by  the  tide. 

Avoidingthemany  nets  extended  long 
and  wide  on  the  grassy  sands,  the  youth 
walked  through  the  tide-swollen  mouth 
of  the  river,  and  passed  along  the  front 
of  the  village  until  he  arrived  at  a  house 
which  stood  with  its  gable  seaward  and 
its  small  window  filled  with  a  curious 
collection  of  things  for  sale — dusty-look- 
ing sweets  in  a  glass  bottle  ;  gingerbread 
cakes  in  the  shape  of  large  hearts,  thick- 
ly studded  with  sugar-plums  of  rainbow 
colors,  invitingly  poisonous;  strings  of 
tin  covers  fortobacco-pipes,  overlapping 
each  other  like  fish-scales ;  toys,  and 
tapes,  and  needles,  and  twenty  other 
kinds  of  things  all  huddled  together. 

Turning  the  corner  of  this  house,  he 
went  down  the  narrow  passage  between 
it  and  the  next,  and  went  in  at  its  open 
door.  But  the  moment  it  was  entered  it 
lost  all  appearance  of  a  shop,  and  the 
room  with  the  tempting  window  showed 
itself  only  as  a  poor  kitchen  with  an 
earthen  floor. 

"  Weel,  hoo  did  the  pipes  behave 
themsels  the  day,  daddy  ?"  said  the 
youth  as  he  strode  in. 

"  Och,  she  '11  pe  pcing  a  coot  poy  ta- 
day,"  returned  the  tremulous  voice  of 
a  gray- headed  old  man  who  was  lean- 


MALCOLM. 


ing  over  a  small  peat-fire  on  the  hearth, 
sifting  oatmeal  through  the  fingers  of 
his  left  hand  into  a  pot,  while  he  stirred 
the  boiling  mess  with  a  short  stick  held 
in  his  right. 

It  had  grown  to  be  understood  be- 
tween them  that  the  pulmonary  condi- 
tions of  the  asthmatic  old  piper  should 
be  attributed  not  to  his  internal,  but  his 
external  lungs — namely,  the  bag  of  his 
pipes.  Both  sets  had  of  late  years  mani- 
fested strong  symptoms  of  decay,  and 
decided  measures  had  had  to  be  again 
and  again  resorted  to  in  the  case  of  the 
latter  to  put  off  its  evil  day  and  keep 
within  it  the  breath  of  its  musical  exist- 
ence. The  youth's  question,  then,  as  to 
the  behavior  of  the  pipes  was  in  real- 
ity an  inquiry  after  the  condition  of  his 
grandfather's  lungs,  which  grew  yearly 
more  and  more  asthmatic  ;  notwith- 
standing which  old  Duncan  MacPhail, 
however,  would  not  hear  of  giving  up  the 
dignity  of  town-piper,  and  sinking  into 
a  mere  merchant,  as  in  Scotland  they 
denominate  the  smallest  shopkeeper. 

"  That's  fine,  daddy,"  returned  the 
youth.  "  WuU  I  mak  oot  the  parritch  ? 
I'm  thinkin'  ye've  had  eneuch  o'  hing- 
in'  ower  the  fire  this  het  mornin'." 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Duncan.  "  She'll 
pe  perfetly  able  to  make  ta  parritch 
herself,  my  poy  Malcolm.  Ta  tay  will 
dawn  when  her  poy  must  make  his 
own  parritch,  an'  she  '11  bewantin'  no 
more  parritch  ;  but  haf  to  trink  ta  rain- 
water, and  no  trop  of  ta  uisgebeatha  to 
put  into  it,  my  poy  Malcolm." 

His  grandson  was  quite  accustomed 
to  the  old  man's  heathenish  mode  of 
regarding  his  immediate  existence  after 
death  as  a  long  confinement  in  the  grave, 
and  generally  had  a  word  or  two  ready 
wherewith  to  combat  the  frightful  no- 
tion ;  but,  as  he  spoke,  Duncan  lifted 
the  pot  from  the  fire,  and  set  it  on  its 
three  legs  on  the  deal  table  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  adding  : 

"  Tere,  my  man — tere's  ta  parritch  ! 
And  was  it  putter,  or  traicle,  or  ta  pottle 
o'  peer,  she  would  be  havin'  for  kitchie 
tis  fine  mornin' .''" 

This  point  settled,  the  two  sat  down 
to  eat  their  breakfast ;  and  no  one  would 


have  discovered,  from  the  manner  in 
which  the  old  man  helped  himself,  nor 
yet  from  the  look  of  his  eyes,  that  he 
was  stone-blind.  It  came  neither  of 
old  age  nor  disease — he  had  been  born 
blind.  His  eyes,  although  large  and 
wide,  looked  like  those  of  a  sleep- 
walker— open  with  shut  sense  ;  the  shine 
in  them  was  all  reflected  light — glitter, 
no  glow;  and  their  color  was  so  pale 
that  they  suggested  some  horrible  sight 
as  having  driven  from  them  hue  and 
vision  together. 

"  Haf  you  eated  enough,  my  son?" 
he  said,  when  he  heard  Malcolm  lay 
down  his  spoon. 

"Ay,  plenty,  thank  ye,  daddy,  and 
they  were  richt  weel  made,"  replied  the 
lad,  whose  mode  of  speech  was  entirely 
different  from  his  grandfather's  :  the  lat- 
ter had  learned  English  as  a  foreign  lan- 
guage, and  could  not  speak  Scotch,  his 
mother-tongue  being  Gaelic. 

As  they  rose  from  the  table,  a  small 
girl,  with  hair  wildly  suggestive  of  in- 
surrection and  conflagration,  entered, 
and  said,  in  the  screech  with  which  the 
thoughtless  often  address  the  blind  : 

"  Maister  MacPhail,  my  mither  wants 
a  pot  o'  bleckin',  an'  ye  're  to  gie  her  't 
gweed." 

"  Fery  coot,  my  chilt,  Jeannie ;  but 
young  Malcolm  an'  old  Tuncan  hasn't 
made  teir  prayers  yet,  and  you  know 
fery  well  tat  she  won't  sell  pefore  she's 
made  her  prayers.  Tell  your  mother 
tat  she  '11  pe  bringin'  ta  blackin'  when 
she  comes  to  look  to  ta  lamp." 

The  child  ran  off  without  response. 
Malcolm  lifted  the  pot  from  the  table 
and  set  it  on  the  hearth  ;  put  the  plates 
together  and  the  spoons,  and  set  them 
on  a  chair,  for  there  was  no  dresser ; 
tilted  the  table,  and  wiped  it  hearthward  ; 
then  from  a  shelf  took  down  and  laid 
upon  it  a  Bible,  before  which  he  seated 
himself  with  an  air  of  reverence.  The 
old  man  sat  down  on  a  low  chair  by  the 
chimney  corner,  took  off  his  bonnet, 
closed  his  eyes  and  murmured  some 
almost  inaudible  words  ;  then  repeated 
in  Gaelic  the  first  line  of  the  hundred 
and  third  psalm — 

O  m'  anam,  beannich  thusa  nish — 


MALCOLM. 


and  raised  a  tune  of  marvelous  wail. 
Arrived  at  the  end  of  the  line,  he  re- 
peated the  process  with  the  next,  and 
so  on,  giving  every  line  first  in  the  voice 
of  speech  and  then  in  the  voice  of  song, 
through  the  first  three  stanzas  of  eight 
lines  each.  No  less  strange  was  the 
singing  than  the  tune — wild  and  wail- 
ful as  the  wind  of  his  native  desola- 
tions, or  as  the  sound  of  his  own  pipes 
borne  thereon  ;  and  apparently  all  but 
lawless,  for  the  multitude  of  so-called 
grace-notes,  hovering  and  fluttering  end- 
lessly around  the  centre  tone  like  the 
comments  on  a  text,  rendered  it  nearly 
impossible  to  unravel  from  them  the  air 
even  of  a  known  tune.  It  had  in  its 
kind  the  same  liquid  uncertainty  of  con- 
fluent sound  which  had  hitherto  rendered 
it  impossible  for  Malcolm  to  learn  more 
than  a  few  common  phrases  of  his 
grandfather's  native  speech. 

The  psalm  over,  during  which  the 
sightless  eyeballs  of  the  singer  had  been 
turned  up  toward  the  rafters  of  the  cot- 
tage— a  sign  surely  thatthegerm  of  light, 
"the  sunny  seed,"  as  Henry  Vaughan 
calls  it,  must  be  in  him,  else  why  should 
he  lift  his  eyes  when  he  thought  up- 
ward ? — Malcolm  read  a  chapter  of  the 
Bible,  plainly  the  next  in  an  ordered 
succession,  for  it  could  never  have  been 
chosen  or  culled  ;  after  which  they 
kneeled  together,  and  the  old  man 
poured  out  a  prayer,  beginning  in  a  low, 
scarcely  audible  voice,  which  rose  at 
length  to  a  loud,  modulated  chant.  Not 
a  sentence,  hardly  a  phrase  of  the  ut- 
terance, did  his  grandson  lay  hold  of; 
neither  was  there  more  than  one  inhab- 
itant of  the  place  who  could  have  inter- 
preted a  word  of  it.  It  was  commonly 
believed,  however,  that  one  part  of  his 
devotions  was  invariably  a  prolonged 
petition  for  vengeance  on  Campbell  of 
Glenlyon,  the  main  instrument  in  the 
massacre  of  Glenco. 

He  could  have  prayed  in  English,  so 
that  his  grandson  might  have  joined  in 
his  petitions,  but  such  an  idea  could 
never  have  presented  itself.  Under- 
standing both  languages,  he  used  that 
which  was  unintelligible  to  the  lad,  yet 
regarded  himself  as  the  party  who  had 


the  right  to  resent  the  consequent  schism. 
Such  a  conversation  as  now  followed 
was  no  new  thing  after  prayers. 

"  I  could  fery  well  wish,  Malcolm,  my 
son,"  said  the  old  man,  "tat  you  would 
be  learnin'  to  speak  your  own  lan- 
cuach.  It  is  all  fery  well  for  ta  Sassen- 
ach iySaxon,  i.e.,  non-Celtic)  podies  to 
read  ta  Piple  in  English,  for  it  will  pe 
pleasing  ta  Almighty  not  to  make  tern 
cawpable  of  ta  Gaelic,  no  more  tan  mon- 
keys ;  but  for  all  tat  it's  not  ta  vord  of 
God.  Ta  Gaelic  is  ta  lancuach  of  ta  car- 
den  of  Aiden,  and  no  doubt  but  it  pe  ta 
lancuach  in  which  ta  Shepherd  calls  his 
sheep  on  ta  everlastin'  hills.  You  see, 
Malcolm,  it  must  be  so,  for  how  can 
a  mortal  man  speak  to  his  God  in  any 
thing  put  Gaelic  1  When  Mr.  Graham — 
no,  not  Mr.  Graham,  ta  coot  man  ;  it  was 
ta  new  minister — he  speak  an'  say  to 
her:  'Mr.  MacPhail,  you  ought  to  say 
your  prayers  in  Enclish,'  I  was  fery 
wrathful,  and  I  answered  and  said  :  '  Mr. 
Downey,  do  you  tare  to  suppose  tat  God 
doesn't  prefer  ta  Gaelic  to  ta  Sassenach 
tongue?' — 'Mr.  MacPhail,'  says  he,  'it 
'11  pe  for  your  poy  I  mean  it.  How's  ta 
lad  to  learn  ta  way  of  salfation  if  you 
speak  to  your  God  in  his  presence  in  a 
strange  tongue  ?'  So  I  was  opedient  to 
his  vord,  and  ta  next  efening  I  tid  kneel 
town  in  Sassenach  and  I  tid  try.  But, 
ochone  !  she  wouldn't  go ;  her  tongue 
would  be  cleafing  to  ta  roof  of  her 
niouth ;  ta  claymore  would  be  sticking 
rusty  in  ta  scabbard  ;  for  her  heart  she 
was  ashamed  to  speak  to  ta  Hielan'- 
man's  Maker  in  ta  Sassenach  tongue. 
You  must  learn  ta  Gaelic,  or  you'll  not  pe 
pcing  worthy  to  be  peing  her  nain  son, 
Malcolm." 

"But,  daddy,  wha's  to  learn  me?" 
asked  his  grandson,  gayly. 

"  Learn  you,  Malcolm  !  Ta  Gaelic  is 
ta  lancuach  of  Nature,  and  wants  no 
learnin'.  /nefer  had  any  learnin' ;  yet 
I  nefer  haf  to  say  to  myself,  '  What  is  it 
I  would  be  saying  ?'  when  I  speak  ta 
Gaelic ;  put  I  always  haf  to  set  ta  tead 
men — that  is  ta  vords — on  their  feet,  and 
put  tern  in  pattle-array  again,  when  I 
would  pe  speakin'  ta  dull  mechanic 
English.     When  1  open    my  mouth  to 


MALCOLM. 


23 


it,  ta  Gaelic  comes  like  a  spring  of  pure 
water,  Malcolm.  Ta  plenty  of  it  jmist 
run  out.  Try  it  now,  Malcolm.  Shust 
oppen  your  mouth  in  ta  Gaelic  shape, 
and  see  if  ta  Gaelic  will  not  pe  falling 
from  it." 

Seized  with  a  merry  fit,  Malcolm  did 
open  his  mouth  in  the  Gaelic  shape,  and 
sent  from  it  a  strange  gabble,  imitative 
of  the  most  frequently  recurring  sounds 
of  his  grandfather's  speech. 

"  How  will  that  do,  daddy  ?"  he  asked, 
after  jabbering  gibberish  for  the  space 
of  a  minute. 

"  It  will  not  pe  paad  for  a  beginner, 
Malcolm.  She  cannot  say  it  shust  pe 
vorts,  or  tat  tere  pe  much  of  ta  sense  in 
it ;  but  it  pe  fery  like  what  ta  pabes  say 
pefore  tey  pekin  to  speak  it  properly. 
So  it's  all  fery  well,  and  if  you  will  only 
pe  putting  your  mouth  in  ta  Gaelic  shape 
often  enough,  ta  sounds  will  soon  pe 
taking  ta  shape  of  it,  and  ta  vorts  will 
pe  coming  trough  ta  mists,  and  pefore 
you  know  you'll  pe  peing  a  creat  credit 
to  your  cranfather,  my  boy  Malcolm." 

A  silence  followed,  for  Malcolm's  at- 
tempt had  not  had  the  result  he  antici- 
pated :  he  had  thought  only  to  make 
his  grandfather  laugh.  Presently  the 
old  man  resumed,  in  the  kindest  voice  : 

"And  tere's  another  thing,  Malcolm, 
tat's  much  wanting  to  you  :  you'll  never 
pe  a  man — not  to  speak  of  a  pard  like 
your  cranfather — if  you'll  not  pe  learn- 
ing to  play  on  ta  bagpipes." 

Malcolm,  who  had  been  leaning 
against  the  chitnley-htg  while  his  grand- 
father spoke,  moved  gently  round  be- 
hind his  chair,  reached  out  for  the  pipes 
where  they  lay  in  a  corner  at  the  old 
man's  side,  and  catching  them  up  softly, 
put  the  mouthpiece  to  his  lips,  and  with 
a  few  vigorous  blasts  filled  the  bag. 
Then  out  burst  the  double  droning  bass, 
and  the  youth's  fingers,  clutching  the 
chanter  as  by  the  throat,  at  once  com- 
pelled its  screeches  into  shape  far  better, 
at  least,  than  his  lips  had  been  able  to  give 
the  crude  material  of  Gaelic.  He  played 
the  only  reel  he  knew,  but  that  with  full 
vigor  and  good  effect.  At  the  sound  of 
the  first  of  the  notes  of  it,  the  old  man 
sprung  to  his  feet  and  began  capering  to 


the  reel — partly  in  delight  with  the  music, 
but  far  more  in  delight  with  the  musician. 
Ever  and  anon,  with  feeble  yell,  he  ut- 
tered the  unspellable  Hoogh  of  the  High- 
lander, and  jumped,  as  he  thought,  high 
in  the  air,  though  his  failing  limbs,  alas  ! 
lifted  his  feet  scarce  an  inch  from  the 
floor. 

"Aigh!  aigh!"  he  sighed  at  length, 
yielding  the  contest  between  his  legs 
and  the  lungs  of  the  lad — "aigh  !  aigh ! 
she'll  die  happy !  she'll  die  happy ! 
Hear  till  her  poy,  how  he  makes  ta 
pipes  speak  ta  true  Gaelic !  Ta  pest 
o'  Gaelic,  tat!  Old  Tuncan's  pipes  '11 
not  know  how  to  be  talking  Sassenach. 
See  to  it !  See  to  it !  He  had  put  to 
blow  in  at  ta  one  end,  and  out  came  ta 
reel  at  ta  tother.  Hoogh !  hoogh  !  Play 
us  ta  Righil  Thulachan,  Malcolm,  my 
chief!" 

"  I  kenna  reel,  strathspey,  nor  lilt,  but 
jist  that  burd  alane,  daddy." 

"  Give  tem  to  me,  my  poy  !"  cried  the 
old  piper,  reaching  out  a  hand  as  eager 
to  clutch  the  uncouth  instrument  as  the 
miser's  to  finger  his  gold  :  "  hear  well  to 
me  as  I  play,  an'  you'll  soon  be  able  to 
play  dance  or  coronach  with  the  best 
piper  petween  Cape  Wrath  and  ta  Mull 
o'  Cantyre." 

Duncan  played  tune  after  tune  until 
his  breath  failed  him,  and  an  exhausted 
grunt  of  the  drone  in  the  middle  of  a 
coronach,  followed  by  an  abrupt  pause, 
revealed  the  emptiness  of  both  lungs  and 
bag.  Then  first  he  remembered  his  ob- 
ject, forgotten  the  moment  he  began  to 
play. 

"  Now,  Malcolm,"  he  said,  offering 
the  pipes  to  his  grandson,  "you  play 
tat  after  me." 

He  had  himself  of  course  learned  all 
by  the  ear,  but  could  hardly  have  been 
serious  in  requesting  Malcolm  to  follow 
him  through  such  a  succession  of  tortu- 
ous mazes. 

"  I  haena  a  memory  up  to  that,  dad- 
dy ;  but  I  s'  get  a  haud  o'  Mr.  Graham's 
flute-music,  and  maybe  that'll  help  me  a 
bit. — Wadna  ye  be  takin'  hame  Mistress 
Partan's  blackin'  'at  ye  promised  her?" 

"  Surely,  my  son.  She  should  always 
be  keeping  her  promises." 


24 


MALCOLM. 


He  rose,  and  getting  a  small  stone 
bottle  and  his  stick  from  the  corner 
between  the  projecting  mgle-cheek  and 
the  window,  left  the  house,  to  walk  with 
unerring  steps  through  the  labyrinth  of 
the  village,  threading  his  way  from  pas- 
sage to  passage,  avoiding  pools  and  pro- 
jecting stones,  not  to  say  houses,  and 
human  beings  who  did  not  observe  his 
approach.  His  eyes,  or  his  whole  face, 
appeared  to  possess  an  ethereal  sense  as 
of  touch,  for  without  the  slightest  con- 
tact in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word, 
he  was  aware  of  the  neighborhood  of 
material  objects,  as  if  through  the  pulsa- 
tions of  some  medium  to  others  impercep- 
tible. He  could,  with  perfect  accuracy, 
tell  the  height  of  any  wall  or  fence  with- 
in a  few  feet  of  him  ;  could  perceive  at 
once  whether  it  was  high  or  low  or  half 
tide,  by  going  out  in  front  of  the  houses 
and  turning  his  face,  with  its  sightless 
eyeballs,  toward  the  sea  ;  knew  whether 
a  woman  who  spoke  to  him  had  a  child 
in  her  arms  or  not;  and,  indeed,  if  she 
was  about  to  be  a  mother,  was  believed 
to  become  at  once  aware  of  the  fact. 

He  was  a  strange  figure  to  look  upon 
in  that  lowland  village,  for  he  invariably 
wore  the  highland  dress  :  in  truth,  he  had 
never  had  a  pair  of  trowsers  on  his  legs, 
and  was  far  from  pleased  that  his  grand- 
son clothed  himself  in  such  contempt- 
ible garments.  But,  contrasted  with  the 
showy  style  of  his  costume,  there  was 
something  most  pathethic  in  the  blended 
pallor  of  hue  into  which  the  originally 
gorgeous  colors  of  his  kilt  had  faded — 
noticeable  chiefly  on  week-days,  when 
he  wore  no  sporran  ;  for  the  kilt,  en- 
countering, from  its  loose  construction, 
comparatively  little  strain  or  friction, 
may  reach  an  age  unknown  to  the  gar- 
ments of  the  low  country,  and,  while 
perfectly  decent,  yet  look  ancient  ex- 
ceedingly. On  Sundays,  however,  he 
made  the  best  of  himself,  and  came  out 
like  a  belated  and  aged  butterfly,  in  his 
father's  sporran,  or  tasseled  goatskin 
purse,  in  front  of  him,  his  grandfather's 
dirk  at  his  side,  his  great-grandfather's 
skcne-dhii,  or  little  black-hafted  knife, 
stuck  in  the  stocking  of  his  right  leg,  and 
a  huge  round  brooch  of  brass — nearly 


half  a  foot  in  diameter,  and,  Mr.  Gra- 
ham said,  as  old  as  the  battle  of  Harlaw 
— on  his  left  shoulder.  In  these  adorn- 
ments he  would  walk  proudly  to  church, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  grandson. 

"The  piper's  gey  [cojisiderably)  brok- 
ken-like  the  day,"  said  one  of  the  fisher- 
men's wives  to  a  neighbor  as  the  old 
man  passed  them,  the  fact  being  that  he 
had  not  yet  recovered  from  his  second 
revel  in  the  pipes  so  soon  after  the  ex- 
haustion of  his  morning's  duty,  and  was, 
in  consequence,  more  asthmatic  than 
usual. 

"  I  doobt  he'll  be  slippin'  awa'  some 
cauld  nicht,"  said  the  other:  "his  leev- 
in'  breath  's  ill  to  get." 

"Ay;  he  has  to  warstle  for  't,  puir 
man  !  Weel,  he'll  be  missed,  the  blin' 
body  !  It's  exterordinar  hoo  he's  man- 
aged to  live,  an'  bring  up  sic  a  fine  lad 
as  that  Ma'colm  o'  his." 

"Weel,  ye  see.  Providence  has  been 
kin'  till  him  as  weel 's  ither  blin'  craters. 
The  toon's  pipin'  's  no  to  be  despised; 
an'  there's  the  cryin',  an'  the  chop,  an' 
the  lamps.  'Deed  he's  been  an  eident 
[diligeni)  crater — an'  for  a  blin'  man, 
as  ye  say,  it's  jist  exterordinar." 

"  Div  ye  min'  whan  first  he  cam'  to 
the  toon,  lass  ?" 

"Ay;  what  wad  hinner  me  min'in' 
that?     It's  no  sae  lang." 

"Weel,  Ma'colm,  'at's  sic  a  fine  lad 
noo,  they  tell  me  wasna  muckle  big- 
ger nor  a  gey  haddie"  [tolerable  had- 
dock). 

"  But  the  auld  man  was  an  auld  man 
than,  though  nae  doobt  he's  unco  failed 
sin  syne."  / 

"  A  dochter's  bairn,  they  say,  the  lad." 

"Ay,  they  say,  but  wha  kens  ?  Dun- 
can could  never  be  gotten  to  open  his 
mou'  as  to  the  father  or  mither  o'  'm, 
an'  sae  it  weel  may  be  as  they  say.  It's 
nigh  twenty  year  noo,  I'm  thinkin',  sin' 
he  made  's  appearance,  and  ye  wasna 
come  frae  Scaurnose  at  that  time." 

"Some  fowk  says  the  auld  man's 
name's  no  MacPhail,  and  he  maun  hae 
come  here  in  hidin'  for  some  rouch  job 
or  ither  'at  he's  been  mixed  up  wi'." 

"I  s'  believe  nae  ill  o'  sic  a  puir, 
hairmlcss  body.     Fowk  'at  maks  their 


MALCOLM. 


25 


ain  livin',  wantin'  thee  een  to  guide  them, 
canna  be  that  far  aff  the  straucht.  Guid 
guide  's  !  we  hae  eneuch  to  answer  for 
oor  ainsels,  ohn  passed  [ivif/umi  pass- 
ing)  judgment  upo'  ane  anither." 


"I  was  but  tclHn'  ye  what  fowk  telled 
me,"  returned  the  younger  woman. 

"Ay,  ay,  lass;  I  ken  that,  for  I  ken 
there  was  fowk  to  tell  ye." 


I^J^IE^T     TI. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
ALEXANDER   GRAHAM. 

AS  soon  as  his  grandfather  left  the 
house,  Malcolm  went  out  also,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  him,  and  turning 
the  key,  but  leaving  it  in  the  lock.  He 
ascended  to  the  upper  town — only,  how- 
ever, to  pass  through  its  main  street,  at 
the  top  of  which  he  turned  and  looked 
back  for  a  few  moments,  apparently  in 
contemplation.  The  descent  to  the  shore 
was  so  sudden  that  he  could  see  noth- 
ing of  the  harbor  or  of  the  village  he 
had  left — nothing  but  the  blue  bay  and 
the  filmy  mountains  of  Sutherlandshire, 
molten  by  distance  into  cloudy  ques- 
tions, and  looking  betwixt  blue  sea  and 
blue  sky,  less  substantial  than  either. 
After  gazing  for  a  moment,  he  turned 
again,  and  held  on  his  way,  through 
fields  which  no  fence  parted  from  the 
road.  The  morning  was  still  glorious, 
the  larks  right  jubilant,  and  the  air  filled 
with  the  sweet  scents  of  cottage  flowers. 
Across  the  fields  came  the  occasional 
low  of  an  ox,  and  the  distant  sounds  of 
children  at  play.  But  Malcolm  saw  with- 
out noting,  and  heard  without  heeding, 
for  his  mind  was  full  of  speculation  con- 
cerning the  lovely  girl,  whose  vision 
already  appeared  far  off: — who  might 
she  be  ?  whence  had  she  come  ?  whither 
could  she  have  vanished  ?  That  she  did 
not  belong  to  the  neighborhood  was  cer- 
tain, he  thought ;  but  there  was  a  farm- 
house near  the  sea-town  where  they  let 
lodgings ;  and,  although  it  was  early  in 
the  season,  she  might  belong  to  some 
family  which  had  come  to  spend  a  few 
of  the  summer  weeks  there  :  possibly  his 
appearance  had  prevented  her  from  hav- 
ing her  bath  that  morning.  If  he  should 
have  the  good  fortune  to  see  her  again, 
he  would  show  her  a  place  far  fitter  for 
the  purpose — a  perfect  arbor  of  rocks,  ut- 
terly secluded,  with  a  floor  of  deep  sand, 
and  without  a  hole  for  crab  or  lobster. 
26 


His  road  led  him  in  the  direction  of  a 
few  cottages  lying  in  a  hollow.  Beside 
them  rose  a  vision  of  trees,  bordered  by 
an  ivy-grown  wall,  from  amidst  whose 
summits  shot  the  spire  of  a  church  ;  and 
from  beyond  the  spire,  through  the  trees, 
came  golden  glimmers  as  of  vane  and 
crescent  and  pinnacled  ball,  that  hinted 
at  some  shadowy  abode  of  enchantment 
within ;  but  as  he  descended  the  slope 
toward  the  cottages  the  trees  gradually 
rose  and  shut  in  everything. 

These  cottages  were  far  more  ancient 
than  the  houses  of  the  town,  were  cov- 
ered with  green  thatch,  were  buried  in 
ivy,  and  would  soon  be  radiant  with 
roses  and  honeysuckles.  They  were 
gathered  irregularly  about  a  gate  of 
curious  old  iron-work,  opening  on  the 
churchyard,  but  more  like  an  entrance 
to  the  grounds  behind  the  church,  for  it 
told  of  ancient  state,  bearing  on  each  of 
its  pillars  a  great  stone  heron  with  a  fish 
in  its  beak. 

This  was  the  quarter  whence  had  come 
the  noises  of  children,  but  they  had  now 
ceased,  or  rather  sunk  into  a  gentle  mur- 
mur, which  oozed,  like  the  sound  of  bees 
from  a  straw-covered  beehive,  out  of  a 
cottage  rather  larger  than  the  rest,  which 
stood  close  by  the  churchyard  gate.  It 
was  the  parish  school,  and  these  cottages 
were  all  that  remained  of  the  old  town> 
of  Portlossie,  which  had  at  one  time 
stretched  in  a  long  irregular  street  al- 
most to  the  shore.  The  town  cross  yet 
stood,  but  away  solitary  on  a  green  hill 
that  overlooked  the  sands. 

During  the  summer  the  long  walk  from 
the  new  town  to  the  school  and  to  the 
church  was  anything  but  a  hardship  :  in 
winter  it  was  otherwise,  for  then  there 
were  dqys  in  which  few  would  venture 
the  single  mile  that  separated  them. 

The  door  of  the  school,  bisected  longi- 
tudinally, had  one  of  its  halves  open, 
and"  by  it  outflowed  the  gentle  hum  of 


MALCOLM. 


27 


the  honey-bees  of  learning.  Malcobn 
walked  in,  and  had  the  whole  of  the 
busy  scene  at  once  before  him.  The 
place  was  like  a  barn,  open  from  wall  to 
wall,  and  from  floor  to  rafters  and  thatch, 
browned  with  the  peat  smoke  of  vanish- 
ed winters.  Two -thirds  of  the  space 
were  filled  with  long  desks  and  forms ; 
the  other  had  only  the  master's  desk, 
and  thus  afforded  room  for  standing 
classes.  At  the  present  moment  it  was 
vacant,  for  the  prayer  was  but  just  over, 
and  the  Bible-class  had  not  been  called 
up  :  there  Alexander  Graham,  the  school- 
master, descending  from  his  desk,  met 
and  welcomed  Malcolm  with  a  kind  shake 
of  the  hand.  He  was  a  man  of  middle 
height,  but  very  thin ;  and  about  five 
and  forty  years  of  age,  but  looked  older, 
because  of  his  thin  gray  hair  and  a  stoop 
in  the  shoulders.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
shabby  black  tail-coat  and  clean  white 
neck-cloth  :  the  rest  of  his  clothes  were 
of  parson  gray,  noticeably  shabby  also. 
The  quiet  sweetness  of  his  smile  and  a 
composed  look  of  submission  were  sug- 
gestive of  the  purification  of  sorrow,  but 
were  attributed  by  the  townsfolk  to  dis- 
appointment ;  for  he  was  still  but  a  school- 
master, whose  aim  they  thought  must  be 
a  pulpit  and  a  parish.  But  Mr.  Graham 
had  been  early  released  from  such  an 
ambition,  if  it  had  ever  possessed  him, 
and  had  for  many  years  been  more  than 
content  to  give  himself  to  the  hopefuller 
work  of  training  children  for  the  true 
ends  of  life :  he  lived  the  quietest  of 
studious  lives,  with  an  old  housekeeper. 
Malcolm  had  been  a  favorite  pupil, 
and  the  relation  of  master  and  scholar 
did  not  cease  when  the  latter  saw  that 
he  ought  to  do  something  to  lighten  the 
burden  of  his  grandfather,  and  so  left 
the  school  and  betook  himself  to  the 
life  of  a  fisherman — with  the  slow  leave 
of  Duncan,  who  had  set  his  heart  on 
making  a  scholar  of  him,  and  would 
never,  indeed,  had  Gaelic  been  amongst 
his  studies,  have  been  won  by  the  most 
laborsome  petition.  He  asserted  him- 
self perfectly  able  to  provide  for  both  for 
ten  years  to  come  at  least,  in  proof  of 
which  he  roused  the  inhabitants  of  Port- 
lossie,  during  the  space  of  a  whole  month, 


a  full  hour  earlier  than  usual,  with  the 
most  terrific  blasts  of  the  bagpipes,  and 
this  notwithstanding  complaint  and  ex- 
postulation on  all  sides,  so  that  at  length 
the  provost  had  to  interfere  ;  after  which 
outburst  of  defiance  to  time,  however, 
his  energy  had  begun  to  decay  so  visibly 
that  Malcolm  gave  himself  to  the  pipes 
in  secret,  that  he  might  be  ready,  in  case 
of  sudden  emergency,  to  take  his  grand- 
father's place  ;  for  Duncan  lived  in  con- 
stant dread  of  the  hour  when  his  office 
might  be  taken  from  him  and  conferred 
on  a  mere  drummer,  or,  still  worse,  on  a 
certain  ne'er-do-weel  cousin  of  the  pro- 
vost, so  devoid  of  music  as  to  be  capable 
only  of  ringing  a  bell. 

"  I've  had  an  invitation  to  Miss  Camp- 
bell's funeral — INIiss  Horn's  cousin,  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  in  a  hesitating 
and  subdued  voice  :  "could  you  manage 
to  take  the  school  for  me,  Malcolm  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  There's  naething  to  hinner 
me.     What  day  is  't  upo'  ?" 

"Saturday." 

"Veraweel,  sir.  I  s'  be  here  in  guid 
time." 

This  matter  settled,  the  business  of  the 
school,  in  which,  as  he  did  often,  Mal- 
colm had  come  to  assist,  began.  Only 
a  pupil  of  his  own  could  have  worked 
with  Mr.  Graham,  for  his  mode  was  very 
peculiar.  But  the  strangest  fact  in  it 
would  have  been  the  last  to  reveal  itself 
to  an  ordinary  observer.  This  was,  that  he 
rarely  contradicted  anything :  he  would 
call  up  the  opposing  truth,  set  it  face  to 
face  with  the  error,  and  leave  the  two  to 
fight  it  out.  The  human  mind  and  con- 
science were,  he  said,  the  plains  of  Ar- 
mageddon, where  the  battle  of  good  and 
evil  was  for  ever  raging ;  and  the  one 
business  of  a  teacher  was  to  rouse  and 
urge  this  battle  by  leading  fresh  forces 
of  the  truth  into  the  field — forces  com- 
posed as  little  as  might  be  of  the  hireling 
troops  of  the  intellect,  and  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  native  energies  of  the 
heart,  imagination  and  conscience.  In 
a  word,  he  would  oppose  error  only  by 
teaching  the  truth. 

In  early  life  he  had  come  under  the 
influence  of  the  writings  of  William  Law, 
which  he  read  as  one  who  pondered  every 


MALCOLM. 


doctrine  in  that  light  which  only  obedi- 
ence to  the  truth  can  open  upon  it.  With 
a  keen  eye  for  the  discovery  of  universal 
law  in  the  individual  fact,  he  read  even 
the  marvels  of  the  New  Testament  prac- 
tically. Hence,  in  training  his  soldiers, 
every  lesson  he  gave  them  was  a  missile ; 
every  admonishment  of  youth  or  maiden 
was  as  the  mounting  of  an  armed  cham- 
pion, and  the  launching  of  him  with  a 
Godspeed  into  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

He  now  called  up  the  Bible-class,  and 
Malcolm  sat  beside  and  listened.  That 
morning  they  had  to  read  one  of  the 
chapters  in  the  history  of  Jacob. 

"Was  Jacob  a  good  man  ?"  he  asked, 
as  soon  as  the  reading,  each  of  the  schol- 
ars in  turn  taking  a  verse,  was  over. 

An  apparently  universal  expression  of 
assent  followed ;  halting  in  its  wake, 
however,  came  the  voice  of  a  boy  near 
the  bottom  of  the  class : 

"Wasna  he  some  dooble,  sir?" 

"You are  right,  Sheltie,"  said  the  mas- 
ter; "he  was  double.  I  must,  I  find, 
put  the  question  in  another  shape  :  Was 
Jacob  a  bad  man  ?" 

Again  came  such  a  burst  of  yesses  that 
it  might  have  been  taken  for  a  general 
hiss.  But  limping  in  the  rear  came  again 
the  half-dissentient  voice  of  Jamie  Joss, 
whom  the  master  had  just  addressed  as 
Sheltie : 

"Pairtly,  sir." 

"You  think,  then,  Sheltie,  that  a  man 
may  be  both  bad  and  good  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken,  sir.  I  think  he  may  be 
whiles  ane  an'  whiles  the  ither,  an'  whiles 
maybe  it  wad  be  ill  to  say  whilk.  Oor 
collie's  whiles  in  twa  min's  whether  he'll 
du  what  he's  telled  or  no." 

"That's  the  battle  of  Armageddon, 
Sheltie,  my  man.  It's  aye  ragin',  ohn 
gun  roared  or  bagonet  clashed.  Ye 
maun  up  an'  do  yer  best  in't,  my  man. 
Gien  ye  dee  fechtin'  like  a  man,  ye'll  flee 
up  wi'  a  quaiet  face  an'  wi'  wide  open  een ; 
an'  there's  a  great  Ane  'at  '11  say  to  ye, 
'  Wccl  dune,  laddie !''  But  gien  ye  gie 
in  to  the  enemy,  he'll  turn  ye  intill  a 
creepin'  thing  'at  eats  dirt ;  an'  there  '11 
no  be  a  hole  in  a'  the  crystal  wa'  o'  the 
New  Jerusalem  near  eneuch  to  the  grun' 
to  lat  ye  creep  throu'." 


As  soon  as  ever  Alexander  Graham, 
the  polished  thinker  and  sweet-manner- 
ed gentleman,  opened  his  mouth  con- 
cerning the  things  he  loved  best,  that 
moment  the  most  poetic  forms  came 
pouring  out  in  the  most  rugged  speech. 

"I  reckon,  sir,"  said  Sheltie,  "Jacob 
hadna  fouchten  oot  his  battle." 

"  That's  jist  it,  my  boy.  And  because 
he  wouldna  get  up  and  fecht  manfully, 
God  had  to  tak  him  in  han'.  Ye've 
heard  tell  o'  generals,  whan  their  troops 
war  rinnin'  awa'.haein'  to  cut  this  man 
doon,  shute  that  ane,  and  lick  anither, 
till  he  turned  them  a'  richt  face  aboot 
and  drave  them  on  to  the  foe  like  a  spate ! 
And  the  trouble  God  took  wi'  Jacob  was 
na  lost  upon  him  at  last." 

"An'  what  cam  o'  Esau,  sir?"  asked  a 
pale-faced  maiden  with  blue  eyes.  "  He 
wasna  an  ill  kin'  o'  a  chield — was  he,  sir  ?" 

"No,  Mappy,"  answered  the  master  ; 
"he  was  a  fine  chield,  as  you  say;  but 
he  nott  [jteeded)  mair  time  and  gentler 
treatment  to  mak  onything  o'  him.  Ye 
see  he  had  a  guid  hert,  but  was  a  duller 
kin'  o'  cratur  a'thegither,  and  cai'ed  for 
naething  he  could  na  see  or  hanle.  He 
never  thoucht  muckie  about  God  at  a'. 
Jacob  was  anither  sort — a  poet  kin'  o'  a 
man,  but  a  sneck-drawin'  cratur  for  a' 
that.  It  was  easier,  hooever,  to  get  the 
slyness  oot  o'  Jacob,  than  the  dullness 
oot  o'  Esau.  Punishment  tellt  upo'  Ja- 
cob like  upon  a  thin  -  skinned  horse, 
whauras  Esau  was  mair  like  the  minis- 
ter's powny,  that  can  hardly  be  niade  to 
unnerstan'  that  ye  want  him  to  gang  on. 
But  o'  the  ither  han',  dullness  is  a  thing 
than  can  be  borne  wi' :  there's  na  hurry 
aboot  that ;  but  the  deceitfu'  tricks  o' 
Jacob  war  na  to  be  endured,  and  sae  the 
tawse  [leather  strap)  cam  doon  upo' 
hiiny 

"An'  what  for  didna  God  mak  Esau 
as  clever  as  Jacob  ?"  asked  a  wizened- 
faced  boy  near  the  top  of  the  class. 

"Ah,  my  Peery!"  said  Mr.  Graham, 
"  I  canna  tell  ye  that.  A'  that  I  can  tell 
is,  that  God  hadna  dune  makin'  at  him, 
an'  some  kin'  o'  fowk  tak  langcr  to  mak 
oot  than  ithcrs.  An'  ye  canna  tell  what 
they're  to  be  till  they're  made  oot.  But 
whether  what  I  tell  ye  be  richt  or  no 


MALCOLM. 


29 


God  maun  hae  the  verra  best  o'  rizzons 
for  't,  ower-guid  maybe  for  us  to  unner- 
stan' — the  best  o'  rizzons  for  Esau  him- 
sel',  I  mean,  for  the  Creator  luiks  efter 
his  cratur  first  ava'  (of  all). — And  now," 
conckided  Mr.  Graham,  resuming  his 
Enghsh,  "go  to  your  lessons;  and  be 
dihgent,  that  God  may  think  it  worth 
while  to  get  on  faster  with  the  making 
of  you." 

In  a  moment  the  class  M'as  dispersed 
and  all  were  seated.  In  another,  the 
sound  of  scuffling  arose,  and  fists  were 
seen  storming  across  a  desk. 

"Andrew  Jamieson  and  Poochy,  come 
up  here,"  said  the  master  in  a  loud  voice. 

"//<?  hittit  me  first,"  cried  Andrew,  the 
moment  they  were  within  a  respectful 
distance  of  the  master,  whereupon  Mr. 
Graham  turned  to  the  other  with  inquir)' 
in  his  eyes. 

"He  had  nae  business  to  ca'  me 
Poochy." 

"  No  more  he  had ;  but  you  had  just 
as  little  right  to  punish  him  for  it.  The 
offence  was  against  me  :  he  had  no  right 
to  use  my  name  for  you,  and  the  quar- 
rel was  mine.  For  the  present  you  are 
Poochy  no  more  :  go  to  your  place,  Wil- 
liam Wilson." 

The  boy  burst  out  sobbing,  and  crept 
back  to  his  seat  with  his  knuckles  in  his 
eyes. 

"Andrew  Jamieson,"  the  master  went 
on,  "  I  had  almost  got  a  name  for  you, 
but  you  have  sent  it  away.  You  are  not 
ready  for  it  yet,  I  see.     Go  to  your. place." 

With  downcast  looks  Andrew  followed 
William,  and  the  watchful  eyes  of  the 
master  saw  that,  instead  of  quarreling 
any  more  during  the  day,  they  seemed 
to  catch  at  every  opportunity  of  showing 
each  other  a  kindness. 

Mr.  Graham  never  vised  bodily  pun- 
ishment :  he  ruled  chiefly  by  the  aid  of 
a  system  of  individual  titles,  of  the  min- 
gled characters  of  pet-name  and  nick- 
name. As  soon  as  the  individuality  of 
a  boy  had  attained  to  signs  of  blossom- 
ing— that  is,  had  become  such  that  he 
could  predict  not  only  an  upright  but  a 
characteristic  behavior  in  given  circum- 
stances, he  would  take  him  aside  and 
whisper  in  his  ear  that  henceforth,  so 


long  as  he  deserved  it,  he  would  call  him 
by  a  certain  name — one  generally  derived 
from  some  object  in  the  animal  or  veg- 
etable world,  and  pointing  to  a  resem- 
blance which  was  not  often  patent  to 
any  eye  but  the  master's  own.  He  had 
given  the  name  of  Poochy,  for  instance, 
to  William  Wilson,  because,  like  the 
kangaroo,  he  sought  his  object  in  a  suc- 
cession of  awkward,  yet  not  the  less 
availing  leaps — gulping  his  knowledge 
and  pocketing  his  conquered  marble 
after  a  like  fashion.  Mappy,  the  name 
which  thus  belonged  to  a  certain  flaxen- 
haired,  soft-eyed  girl,  corresponds  to  the 
English  bitiDiy.  Sheltie  is  the  small 
Scotch  mountain-pony,  active  and  strong. 
Peery  means  pegtop.  But  not  above  a 
quarter  of  the  children  had  pet-names. 
To  gain  one  was  to  reach  the  highest 
honor  of  the  school ;  the  withdrawal  of 
it  was  the  severest  of  punishments,  and 
the  restoring  of  it  the  sign  of  perfect 
reconciliation.  The  master  permitted  no 
one  else  to  use  it,  and  was  seldom  known 
to  forget  himself  so  far  as  to  utter  it  while 
its  owner  was  in  disgrace.  The  hope  of 
gaining  such  a  name,  or  the  fear  of  losing 
it,  was  in  the  pupil  the  strongest  ally  of 
the  master,  the  most  powerful  enforce- 
ment of  his  influences.  It  was  a  scheme 
of  government  by  aspiration.  But  it 
owed  all  its  operative  power  to  the  cha- 
racter of  the  man  who  had  adopted 
rather  than  invented  it — for  the  scheme 
had  been  suggested  by  a  certain  passage 
in  the  book  of  the  Revelation. 

W^ithout  having  read  a  word  of  Swe- 
denborg,  he  was  a  believer  in  the  abso- 
lute correspondence  of  the  inward  and 
outward ;  and,  thus  long  before  the 
younger  Darwin  arose,  had  suspected  a 
close  relationship — remote  identity,  in- 
deed, in  nature  and  history — between 
the  animal  and  human  worlds.  But 
photographs  from  a  good  many  different 
points  would  be  necessaiy  to  afford  any- 
thing like  a  complete  notion  of  the  cha- 
racter of  this  countiy  schoolmaster. 

Toward  noon,  while  he  was  busy  with 
an  astronomical  class,  explaining,  by 
means  partly  of  the  blackboard,  partly 
of  two  boys  representing  the  relation  of 
the  earth  and  the  moon,  how  it  comes 


30 


MALCOLM. 


that  we  see  but  one  half  of  the  latter, 
the  door  gently  opened  and  the  troubled 
face  of  the  mad  laird  peeped  slowly  in. 
His  body  followed  as  gently,  and  at  last 
— sad  symbol  of  his  weight  of  care — his 
hump  appeared,  with  a  slow  half-revolu- 
tion as  he  turned  to  shut  the  door  behind 
him.  Taking  off  his  hat,  he  walked  up 
to  Mr.  Graham,  who,  busy  with  his  as- 
tronomy, had  not  perceived  his  entrance, 
touched  him  on  the  arm,  and,  standing 
on  tip-toe,  whispered  softly  in  his  ear,  as 
if  it  were  a  painful  secret  that  must  be 
respected—  ' 

"  I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  cam  frae.  I 
want  to  come  to  the  school." 

Mr.  Graham  turned  and  shook  hands 
with  him,  respectfully  addressing  him.  as 
Mr.  Stewart,  and  got  down  for  him  the 
arm-chair  which  stood  behind  his  desk. 
But,  with  the  politest  bow,  the  laird  de- 
clined it,  and  mournfully  repeating  the 
words,  "I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  cam  frae," 
took  a  place  readily  yielded  him  in  the 
astronomical  circle  surrounding  the  sym- 
bolic boys. 

This  was  not  by  any  means  his  first 
appearance  there ;  for  every  now  and 
then  he  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  go 
to  school,  plainly  with  the  object  of  find- 
ing out  where  he  came  from.  This 
always  fell  in  his  quieter  times,  and  for 
days  together  he  would  attend  regularly  ; 
in  one  instance  he  was  not  absent  an 
hour  for  a  whole  month.  He  spoke  so 
little,  however,  that  it  was  impossible  to 
tell  how  much  he  understood,  although 
he  seemed  to  enjoy  all  that  went  on. 
He  was  so  quiet,  so  sadly  gentle,  that  he 
gave  no  trouble  of  any  sort,  and  after 
the  first  few  minutes  of  a  fresh  appear- 
ance, the  attention  of  the  scholars  was 
rarely  distracted  by  his  presence. 

The  way  in  which  the  master  treated 
him  awoke  like  respect  in  his  pupils. 
Boys  and  girls  were  equally  ready  to 
make  room  for  him  on  their  forms,  and 
any  one  of  the  latter  who  had  by  some 
kind  attention  awaked  the  watery  glint 
of  a  smile  on  the  melancholy  features 
of  the  troubled  man,  would  boast  of  her 
success.  Hence  it  came  that  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Portlossie  was  the  one  spot 
in  the  county  where  a  person  of  weak 


intellect  or  peculiar  appearance  might  go 
about  free  of  insult. 

The  peculiar  sentence  the  laird  so  often 
uttered  was  the  only  one  he  invariably 
spoke  with  definite  clearness.  In  every 
other  attempt  at  speech  he  was  liable  to 
be  assailed  by  an  often  recurring  impedi- 
ment, during  the  continuance  of  which 
he  could  compass  but  a  word  here  and 
there,  often  betaking  himself,  in  the 
agony  of  suppressed  utterance,  to  the 
most  extravagant  gestures,  with  which 
he  would  sometimes  succeed  in  so  sup- 
plementing his  words  as  to  render  his 
meaning  intelligible. 

The  two  boys  representing  the  earth 
and  the  moon  had  returned  to  their 
places  in  the  class,  and  Mr.  Graham  had 
gone  on  to  give  a  description  of  the 
moon,  in  which  he  had  necessarily  men- 
tioned the  enormous  height  of  her  moun- 
tains as  compared  with  those  of  the  earth. 
But  in  the  course  of  asking  some  ques- 
tions, he  found  a  need  of  further  expla- 
nation, and  therefore  once  more  required 
the  services  of  the  boy-sun  and  boy- 
moon.  The  moment  the  latter,  however, 
began  to  describe  his  circle  around  the 
former,  Mr.  Stewart  stepped  gravely  up 
to  him,  and,  laying  hold  of  his  hand,  led 
him  back  to  his  station  in  the  class  ;  then, 
turning  first  one  shoulder,  then  the  other 
to  the  company,  so  as  to  attract  atten- 
tion to  his  hump,  uttered  the  single  word 
Mountain,  and  took  on  himself  the  part 
of  the  moon,  proceeding  to  I'evolve  in 
the  circle  which  represented  her  orbit. 
Several  of  the  boys  and  girls  smiled,  but 
no  one  laughed,  for  Mr.  Graham's  grav- 
ity maintained  theirs.  Without  remark, 
he  used  the  mad  laird  for  a  moon  to  the 
end  of  his  explanation. 

Mr.  Stewart  remained  in  the  school 
all  the  morning,  stood  up  with  every 
class  Mr.  Graham  taught,  and  in  the  in- 
tervals sat,  with  book  or  slate  before  him, 
still  as  a  Brahman  on  the  fancied  verge 
of  his  re-absorption,  save  that  he  mur- 
mured to  himself  now  and  then — 

"  I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  cam  frae." 

When  his  pupils  dispersed  for  dinner, 
Mr.  Graham  invited  him  to  go  to  his 
house  and  share  his  homely  meal,  but 
with  polished  gesture  and  broken  speech. 


MALCOLM. 


31 


Mr.  Stewart  declined,  walked  away  to- 
ward the  town,  and  was  seen  no  more 
that  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  SWIVEL. 

Mrs.  Courthope,  the  housekeeper  at 
Lossie  House,  was  a  good  woman,  who 
did  not  stand  upon  her  dignities,  as  small 
rulers  are  apt  to  do,  but  cultivated  friend- 
ly relations  with  the  people  of  the  Sea 
Town.  Some  of  the  rougher  of  the  wo- 
men despised  the  sweet  outlandish  speech 
she  had  brought  with  her  from  her  native 
England,  and  accused  her  of  inim-moii  d- 
ness,  or  an  affected  modesty  in  the  use  of 
words  ;  but  not  the  less  was  she  in  their 
eyes  a  great  lady — whence  indeed  came 
the  special  pleasure  in  finding  flaws  in 
her — for  to  them  she  was  the  representa- 
tive of  the  noble  family  on  whose  skirts 
they  and  their  ancestors  had  been  settled 
for  ages,  the  last  marquis  not  having  vis- 
ited the  place  for  many  years,  and  the 
present  having  but  lately  succeeded. 

Duncan  MacPhail  was  a  favorite  with 
her ;  for  the  English  woman  will  gener- 
ally prefer  the  highland  to  the  lowland 
Scotsman ;  and  she  seldom  visited  the 
Seaton  without  looking  in  upon  him  ;  so 
that  when  Malcolm  returned  from  the 
Alton,  or  Old  Town,  where  the  school 
was,  it  did  not  in  the  least  surprise  him 
to  find  her  seated  with  his  grandfather. 
Apparently,  however,  there  had  been 
some  dissension  between  them,  for  the 
old  man  sat  in  his  corner  strangely  wrath- 
ful, his  face  in  a  glow,  his  head  thrown 
back,  his  nostrils  distended,  and  his  eye- 
lids working,  as  if  his  eyes  were  "poor 
dumb  mouths,"  like  Caesar's  wounds, 
trying  to  speak. 

"We  are  told  in  the  New  Testament 
to  forgive  our  enemies,  you  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Courthope,  heedless  of  his  entrance, 
but  in  a  voice  that  seemed  rather  to  plead 
than  oppose. 

"  Inteet  she  will  not  be  false  to  her 
shief  and  her  clan,"  retorted  Duncan 
persistently.  "  She  will  not  forgife  Caw- 
mil  of  Glenlyon." 

"But  he's  dead  long  since,  and  we 


may  at  least  hope  he  repented  and  was 
forgiven." 

"She'll  be  hoping  nothing  of  the  kind, 
Mistress  Kertope,"  replied  Duncan.  "  But 
if,  as  you  say,  God  will  be  forgifing  him — 
which  I  do  not  belief — let  that  pe  enough 
for  ta  greedy  blackguard.  Sure,  it  mat- 
ters but  small  whether  poor  Duncan  Mac- 
Phail  will  be  forgifing  him  or  not.  Any- 
how, he  must  do  without  it,  for  he  shall 
not  haf  it.  He  is  a  tamn  fillain  and 
scounrel,  and  so  she  says,  with  her  re- 
specs  to  yoti,  Mistress  Kertope." 

His  sightless  eyes  flashed  with  indig- 
nation ;  and  perceiving  it  was  time  to 
change  the  subject,  the  housekeeper 
turned  to  Malcolm. 

"Could  you  bring  me  a  nice  mackerel 
or  whiting  for  my  lord's  breakfast  to- 
morrow morning,  Malcolm  ?"  she  said. 

"Ceitaintly,  mem.  I  s'  be  wi'  ye  in 
guid  time  wi'  the  best  the  sea  '11  gie  me," 
he  answered. 

"If  I  have  the  fish  by  nine  o'clock, 
that  will  be  early  enough,"  she  returned. 

"  I  wad  na  like  to  wait  sae  lang  for 
my  brakfast,"  remarked  Malcolm. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  it  much,  if  you 
waited  asleep,"  said  Mrs.  Courthope. 

"  Can  onybody  sleep  till  sic  a  time  o' 
day  as  that?"  exclaimed  the  youth. 

"You  must  remember  my  lord  doesn't 
go  to  bed  for  hours  after  you,  Malcolm." 

"An'  what  can  keep  him  up  a'  that 
time  ?  It's  no  as  gien  he  war  efter  the 
herrin',  an'  had  the  win'  an'  the  watter 
an'  the  netfu's  o'  waumlin'  craturs  to 
haud  him  waukin'." 

"Oh!  he  reads  and  writes,  and  some- 
times goes  walking  about  the  grounds 
after  everybody  else  is  in  bed,"  said  Mrs. 
Courthope — "he  and  his  dog." 

"Weel,  I  wad  raitherbe  up  ear',"  said 
Malcolm — "a  heap  raither.  I  like  fine 
to  be  oot  i'  the  quaiet  o'  the  mornin'  afore 
the  sun's  up  to  set  the  din  gaun  ;  whan 
it's  a'  clear  but  no  bricht — like  the  back 
o'  a  bonny  sawmon ;  an'  air  an'  watter 
an'  a'  luiks  as  gien  they  war  waitin'  for 
something — quaiet,  verra  quaiet,  but  no 
content." 

Malcolm  uttered  this  long  speech,  and 
went  on  with  more  like  it,  in  the  hope 
of  affording  time  for  the  stormy  waters  of 


32 


MALCOLM. 


Duncan's  spirit  to  assuage.  Nor  was  he 
disappointed ;  for,  if  there  was  a  sound 
on  the  earth  Duncan  loved  to  hear,  it 
was  the  voice  of  his  boy ;  and  by  de- 
grees the  tempest  sank  to  repose,  tlie 
gathered  glooms  melted  from  his  coun- 
tenance, and  the  sunlight  of  a  smile 
broke  out. 

"Hear  to  him!"  he  cried.  "Her  poy 
will  pe  a  creat  pard  som  tay,  and  sing 
pefore  ta  Stuart  kings,  when  they  come 
pack  to  Holyrood !" 

Mrs.  Courthope  had  enough  of  poetry 
in  her  to  be  pleased  with  Malcolm's 
quiet  enthusiasm,  and  spoke  a  kind  word 
of  sympathy  with  the  old  man's  delight 
as  she  rose  to  take  her  leave.  Duncan 
rose  also,  and  followed  her  to  the  door, 
making  her  a  courtly  bow,  and  that  just 
as  she  turned  away. 

"  It  '11  pe  a  coot  'oman.  Mistress  Kert- 
ope,"  he  said  as  he  came  back;  "and 
it  '11  not  pe  to  plame  her  for  forgifing 
Glenlyon,  for  he  did  not  kill  her  creat- 
crandmother.  Put  it'll  pe  fery  paad 
preeding  to  request  her  nainsel,  Tuncan 
MacPhail,  to  be  forgifing  ta  rascal. 
Only  she'll  pe  put  a  voman,  and  it'll  not 
pe  knowing  no  petter  to  her. — You'll  be 
minding  you'll  be  firing  ta  cun  at  six 
o'clock  exackly,  Malcolm,  for  all  she 
says ;  for  my  lord,  peing  put  shust  come 
home  to  his  property,  it  might  pe  a  fex 
to  him  if  tere  was  any  mistake  so  soon. 
Put  inteed,  I  vonder  he  hasn't  been  send- 
ing for  old  Tuncan  to  be  gifing  him  a 
song  or  two  on  ta  peeps ;  for  he'll  pe 
hafing  ta  oceans  of  fery  coot  highland 
plood  in  his  own  feins  ;  and  his  friend, 
ta  Prince  of  Wales,  who  has  no  more 
rights  to  it  than  a  maackerel  fish,  will  pe 
wearing  ta  kilts  at  Holyrood.  So  mind 
you  pe  firing  ta  cun  at  six,  my  son." 

For  some  years,  young  as  he  was, 
Malcolm  had  hired  himself  to  one  or 
other  of  the  boat-proprietors  of  the  Sea- 
ton  or  of  Scaurnose,  for  the  herring-fish- 
ing— only,  however,  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood,  refusing  to  go  to  the  west- 
ern islands,  or  any  station  whence  he 
could  not  return  to  sleep  at  his  grand- 
father's cottage.  He  had  thus  on  every 
occasion  earned  enough  to  provide  for 
the  following  winter,  so  that  his  grand- 


father's little  income  as  piper,  and  other 
small  returns,  were  accumulating  in  va- 
rious concealments  about  the  cottage ; 
for,  in  his  care  for  the  future,  Duncan 
dreaded  lest  Malcolm  should  buy  things 
for  him  without  which,  in  his  own  sight- 
less judgment,  he  could  do  well  enough. 

Until  the  herring-season  should  ar- 
rive, however,  Malcolm  made  a  little 
money  by  line-fishing ;  for  he  had  bar- 
gained, the  year  before,  with  the  captain 
of  a  schooner  for  an  old  ship's-boat,  and 
had  patched  and  caulked  it  into  a  suf- 
ficiently serviceable  condition.  He  sold 
his  fish  in  the  town  and  immediate  neigh- 
borhood, where  a  good  many  housekeep- 
ers favored  the  handsome  and  cheery 
young  fisherman. 

He  would  now  be  often  out  in  the  bay 
long  before  it  was  time  to  call  his  grand- 
father, in  his  turn  to  rouse  the  sleepers 
of  Portlossie.  But  the  old  man  had  as 
yet  always  waked  about  the  right  time, 
and  the  inhabitants  had  never  had  any 
ground  of  complaint — a  few  minutes  one 
way  or  the  other  being  of  little  conse- 
quence. He  was  the  cock  which  woke 
the  whole  yard  :  morning  after  morning 
his  pipes  went  crowing  through  the  streets 
of  the  upper  region,  his  music  ending 
always  with  his  round.  But  after  the 
institution  of  the  gun-signal,  his  custom 
was  to  go  on  playing  where  he  stood 
until  he  heard  it,  or  to  stop  short  in  the 
midst  of  his  round  and  his  liveliest  7-e- 
veille  the  moment  it  reached  his  ear. 
Loath  as  he  might  be  to  give  over,  that 
sense  of  good  manners  which  was  su- 
preme in  every  highlander  of  the  old 
time,  interdicted  the  fingering  of  a  note 
after  the  marquis's  gun  had  called 
aloud. 

When  Malcolm  meant  to  go  fishing, 
he  always  loaded  the  swivel  the  night 
before,  and  about  sunset  the  same  even- 
ing he  set  out  for  that  purpose.  Not  a 
creature  was  visible  on  the  border  of  the 
curving  bay  except  a  few  boys  far  off  on 
the  gloaming  sands  whence  the  tide  had 
just  receded :  they  were  digging  for 
sand-eels — lovely  little  silvery  fishes — 
which,  as  every  now  and  then  the  spade 
turned  one  or  two  up,  they  threw  into  a 
tin  pail  for  bait.     But  on  the  summit  of 


MALCOLM. 


33 


the  long  sandhill,  the  lonely  figure  of  a 
man  was  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  level 
light  of  the  rosy  west ;  and  as  Malcolm 
climbed  the  near  end  of  the  dune,  it  was 
turning  far  off  at  the  other :  half-way 
between  them  was  the  embrasure  with 
the  brass  swivel,  and  there  they  met. 

Although  he  had  never  seen  him  be- 
fore, Malcolm  perceived  at  once  it  must 
be  Lord  Lossie,  and  lifted  his  bonnet. 
The  marquis  nodded  and  passed  on,  but 
the  next  moment,  hearing  the  noise  of 
Malcolm's  proceedings  with  the  swivel, 
turned  and  said — 

"What  are  you  about  there  with  that 
gun,  my  lad  ?" 

"  I'm  jist  ga'in'  to  dicht  her  oot  an'  lod 
her,  my  lord,"  answered  Malcolm. 

"  And  what  next  ?  You're  not  going 
to  fire  the  thing  ?" 

"Ay — the  morn's  mornin',  my  lord." 

"  What  will  that  be  for  ?" 

"Ow,  jist  to  wauk  yer  lordship." 

"Hm!"  said  his  lordship,  with  more 
expression  than  articulation. 

"Will  I  no  lod  her?"  asked  Malcolm, 
throwing  down  the  ramrod,  and  ap- 
proaching the  swivel,  as  if  to  turn  the 
muzzle  of  it  again  into  the  embrasure. 

"  Oh,  yes !  load  her  by  all  means.  I 
don't  want  to  interfere  with  any  of  your 
customs.  But  if  that  is  your  object,  the 
means,  I  fear,  are  inadequate." 

"  It's  a  comfort  to  hear  that,  my  lord  ; 
for  I  canna  aye  be  sure  o'  my  auld  watch, 
an'  may  weel  be  oot  a  five  minutes  or 
tvva  whiles.  Sae,  in  future,  seein'  it's  o' 
sic  sma'  consequence  to  yer  lordship,  I 
s'  jist  lat  her  aff  whan  it's  convenient. 
A  feow  minutes  winna  maitter  muckle  to 
the  baillie-bodies." 

There  was  something  in  Malcolm's  ad- 
dress that  pleased  Lord  Lossie — the  ming- 
ling of  respect  and  humor,  probably — 
the  frankness  and  composure,  perhaps. 
He  was  not  self-conscious  enough  to  be 
shy,  and  was  so  free  from  design  of  any 
sort  that  he  doubted  the  good  will  of  no 
one. 

"What's  your  name  ?"  asked  the  mar- 
quis abruptly. 

"  Malcolm  MacPhail,  my  lord." 

"  MacPhail  ?     I  heard  the  name  this 
very  day !     Let  me  see." 
3 


"  My  gran'fathcr's  the  blin'  piper,  my 
lord." 

"Yes,  yes.  Tell  him  I  shall  want  him 
at  the  House.  I  left  my  own  piper  at 
Ceanglas." 

"  I'll  fess  him  wi'  me  the  morn,  gien 
ye  like,  my  lord,  for  I'll  be  ower  wi'  some 
fine  troot  or  ither,  gien  I  haena  the  waur 
luck,  the  morn's  mornin' :  Mistress  Court- 
hope  says  she'll  be  aye  ready  for  ane  to 
fry  to  yer  lordship's  brakfast.  But  I'm 
thinkin'  that'll  be  ower  ear'  for  ye  to  see 
him." 

"I'll  send  for  him  when  I  want  him. 
Go  on  with  your  brazen  serpent  there, 
only  mind  you  don't  give  her  too  much 
supper." 

"Jist  luik  at  her  ribs,  my  lord!  she 
winna  rive !"  was  the  youth's  response; 
and  the  marquis  was  moving  off  with  a 
smile,  when  Malcolm  called  after  him. 

"Gien  yer  lordship  likes  to  see  yer  ain 
ferlies,  I  ken  whaur  som.e  o'  them  lie," 
he  said. 

"What  do  you  xntTxxvhy ferlies ?"  ask- 
ed the  marquis. 

"Ow!  keeriosities,  ye  ken.  For  en- 
stance,  there's  some  queer  caves  alang 
the  cost — twa  or  three  o'  them  afore  ye 
come  to  the  Scaurnose.  They  say  the 
water  bude  till  ha'  howkit  them  ance 
upon  a  time,  and  they  maun  hae  been  fu' 
o'  partans,  an'  lobsters,  an'  their  frien's 
an'  neebors  ;  but  they're  heigh  an'  dreigh 
noo,  as  the  fule  said  o'  his  minister,  an* 
naething  intill  them  but  foumarts,  an' 
otters,  an'  sic  like." 

"Well,  well,  my  lad,  we'll  see,"  said 
his  lordship  kindly ;  and  turning  once 
more,  he  resumed  his  walk. 

"  At  yer  lordship's  will,"  answered  Mal- 
colm in  a  low  voice,  as  he  lifted  his  bon- 
net and  again  bent  to  the  swivel. 

The  next  morning,  he  was  rowing 
slowly  along  in  the  bay,  when  he  was 
startled  by  the  sound  of  his  grandfather's 
pipes,  wafted  clear  and  shrill  on  a  breath 
of  southern  wind,  from  the  top  of  the 
town.  He  looked  at  his  watch :  it  was 
not  yet  five  o'clock.  The  expectation 
of  a  summons  to  play  at  Lossie  House, 
had  so  excited  the  old  man's  brain  that 
he  had  waked  long  before  his  usual  time, 
and   Portlossie   must  wake  also.     The 


34 


MALCOLM. 


worst  of  it  was,  that  he  had  ah-eady,  as 
Malcohii  knew  from  the  direction  of  the 
sound,  almost  reached  the  end  of  his 
beat,  and  must  even  now  be  expecting 
the  report  of  the  swivel,  until  he  heard 
which  he  would  not  cease  playing,  so 
long  as  there  was  a  breath  in  his  body. 
Pulling,  therefore,  with  all  his  might, 
Malcolm  soon  ran  his  boat  ashore,  and 
in  another  instant  the  sharp  yell  of  the 
swivel  rang  among  the  rocks  of  the 
promontory.  He  was  still  standing,  lap- 
ped in  a  light  reverie  as  he  watched  the 
smoke  flying  seaward,  when  a  voice, 
already  well  known  to  him,  said,  close 
at  his  side  : 

"What  are  you  about  with  that  horrid 
cannon  ?" 

Malcolm  started. 

"Ye  garred  me  loup,  my  leddy !"  he 
returned  with  a  smile  and  an  obeisance. 

"  You  told  me,"  the  girl  went  on  em- 
phatically, and  as  she  spoke  she  disen- 
gaged her  watch  from  her  girdle,  "that 
you  fired  it  at  six  o'clock.  It  is  not 
nearly  six." 

"  Didna  ye  hear  the  pipes,  my  leddy  ?" 
he  rejoined. 

"Yes,  well  enough  ;  but  a  whole  regi- 
ment of  pipes  can't  make  it  six  o'clock 
when  my  watch  says  ten  minutes  past 
five." 

"  Eh,  sic  a  braw  watch !"  exclaimed 
Malcolm.  "What's  a'  thae  bonny  white 
k-nots  aboot  the  face  o'  't  ?" 

"  Pearls,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  that 
implied  pity  of  his  ignorance. 

"Jist  look  at  it  aside  mine!"  he  ex- 
claimed in  admiration,  pulling  out  his 
great  old  turnip. 

"There!"  cried  the  girl;  "your  own 
watch  says  only  a  quarter  past  five." 

"  Ow,  ay  !  my  leddy  ;  I  set  it  by  the 
toon  clock  'at  hings  i'  the  window  o'  the 
Lossie  Airms  last  nicht.  But  I  maun  awa' 
an'  luik  eftcr  my  lines,  or  atween  the 
deil  an'  the  dogfish,  my  lord  '11  fare  ill." 

"You  haven't  told  me  why  you  fired 
the  gun,"  she  persisted. 

Thus  compelled,  Malcolm  had  to  ex- 
plain that  the  motive  lay  in  his  anxiety 
lest  his  grandfather  should  over-exert 
himself,  seeing  he  was  subject  to  severe 
attacks  of  asthma. 


"  He  could  stop  when  he  was  tired," 
she  objected. 

"Ay,  gien  his  pride  wad  lat  him,"  an- 
swered Malcolm,  and  turned  away  again, 
eager  to  draw  his  line. 

"  Have  you  a  boat  of  your  own  ?"  ask- 
ed the  lady. 

"Ay;  yon's  her,  doon  on  the  shore 
yonner.  Wad  ye  like  a  row  ?  She's 
fine  an'  quaiet." 

"Who?     The  boat?" 

"The  sea,  my  leddy." 

"  Is  your  boat  clean  ?" 

"O'  a'thing  but  fish.  But  na,  it's  no 
fit  for  sic  a  bonny  goon  as  that.  1  win- 
na  lat  ye  gang  the  day,  my  leddy ;  but 
gien  ye  like  to  be  here  the  morn's  morn- 
in',  I  s'  be  here  at  this  same  hoor,  an' 
hae  my  boat  as  clean's  a  Sunday  sark." 

"You  think  more  of  my  gown  than  of 
myself,"  she  returned. 

"There's  no  fear  o'  yersel',  my  leddy. 
Ye're  ower  weel  made  to  blaud  [spoil). 
But  wae's  me  for  the  goon  or  [before)  it 
had  been  an  hoor  i'  the  boat  the  day  ! — 
no  to  mention  the  fish  comin'  wallopin' 
ower  the  gunnel  ane  efter  the  ither.  But 
'deed  1  mau7i  say  good-mornin',  mem  !" 

"  By  all  means.  I  don't  want  to  keep 
you  a  moment  from  your  precious  fish." 

Feeling  rebuked,  without  well  know- 
ing why,  Malcolm  accepted  the  dismissal, 
and  ran  to  his  boat.  By  the  time  he  had 
taken  his  oars,  the  girl  had  vanished. 

His  line  was  a  short  one  ;  but  twice  the 
number  of  fish  he  wanted  were  already 
hanging  from  the  hooks.  It  was  still 
very  early  when  he  reached  the  harbor. 
At  home  he  found  his  grandfather  wait- 
ing for  him,  and  his  breakfast  ready. 

It  was  hard  to  convince  Duncan  that 
he  had  waked  the  royal  burgh  a  whole 
hour  too  soon.  He  insisted  that,  as  he 
had  never  made  such  a  blunder  before, 
he  could  not  have  made  it  now. 

"  It's  ta  watch  'at  '11  pe  telling  ta  lies, 
Malcolm,  my  poy,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"She  was  once  pefore." 

"  But  the  sun  says  the  same  's  the  watch, 
daddy,"  persisted  Malcolm. 

Duncan  understood  the  position  of  the 
sun  and  what  it  signified,  as  well  as  the 
clearest-eyed  man  in  Port  Lossie,  but  he 
could  not  afford  to  yield. 


MALCOLM. 


35 


"It  was  peing  some  conspeeracy  of  ta 
cursit  Cawmills,  to  make  her  loss  her 
poor  pension,"  he  said.  "  Put  never  you 
mind,  Malcohn  ;  I'll  pe  making  up  for 
ta  plunder  ta'morrow  mornin'.  Ta  coot 
peoples  shall  haf  teir  sleeps  a  whole  hour 
after  tey  ought  to  be  at  teir  works." 


CHAPTER   IX. 
THE    SALMON-TROUT. 

Malcolm  walked  up  through  the  town 
with  his  fish,  hoping  to  part  with  some 
of  the  less  desirable  of  them,  and  so 
lighten  his  basket  before  entering  the 
grounds  of  Lossie  House.  But  he  had 
met  with  little  success,  and  was  now  ap- 
proaching the  town-gate,  as  they  called 
it,  which  closed  a  short  street  at  right 
angles  to  the  principal  one,  when  he 
came  upon  Mrs.  Catanach  —  on  her 
knees,  cleaning  her  doorstep. 

"Weel,  Ma'colm,  what  fish  hae  ye?" 
she  said,  without  looking  up. 

"  Hoo  kent  ye  it  was  me.  Mistress 
Catanach  ?"  asked  the  lad. 

"  Kent  it  was  you  ?"  she  repeated. 
"Gien  there  be  but  twa  feet  at  ance  in 
ony  street  o'  Portlossie,  I'll  tell  ye  whase 
heid's  abune  them,  an'  my  een  steekit 
[closedy 

"Hoot!  ye're  a  witch.  Mistress  Cata- 
nach !"  said  Malcolm  merrily. 

"That's  as  may  be,"  she  returned, 
rising,  and  nodding  mysteriously  ;  "  I 
hae  tauld  ye  nae  mair  nor  the  trowth. 
But  what  garred  ye  whup's  a'  oot  o'  oor 
nakit  beds  by  five  o'clock  i'  the  mornin', 
this  mornin',  man  ?  That's  no  what 
ye're  paid  for." 

"'Deed,  mem,  it  was  jist  a  mistak'  o' 
my  puir  daddy's.  He  had  been  feart  o' 
sleepin'  ower  lang,  ye  see,  an'  sae  had 
waukit  ower  sune.  I  was  oot  efter  the 
fish,  mysel'." 

"  But  ye  fired  the  gun  'gen  the  chap 
[before  the  stroke)  o'  five." 

"  Ow,  ay  !  I  fired  the  gun.  The  puir 
man  wad  hae  bursten  himsel'  gien  I 
hadna." 

"Deil  gien  he  hed  bursten  himsel' — 
the  auld  heelan'  sholt!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Catanach  spitefully. 


"Ye  sanna  even  sic  words  to  my  gran'- 
father,  Mrs.  Catanach,"  said  Malcolm 
with  rebuke. 

She  laughed  a  strange  laugh. 

"Sanna  /"  she  repeated  contemptu- 
ously. "An'  wha  's  yot^r  gran'father, 
that  I  sud  tak  tent  [heed')  hoo  I  wag  my 
tongue  ower  his  richteousness?'" 

Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  her 
tone  to  one  of  would-be  friendliness — 

"  But  what'U  ye  be  seekin'  for  that  bit 
sawmon  trooty,  man  ?"  she  said. 

As  she  spoke  she  approached  his  bas- 
ket, and  would  have  taken  the  fish  in 
her  hands,  but  Malcolm  involuntarily 
drew  back. 

"  It's  gauin'  to  the  Hoose  to  my  lord's 
brakfast,"  he  said. 

"  Hoots  !  ye'U  jist  lea'  the  troot  wi' 
me. — Ye'll  be  seekin'  a  saxpence  for  't, 
I  reckon,"  she  persisted,  again  approach- 
ing the  basket. 

"  I  tell  ye.  Mistress  Catanach,"  said 
Malcolm,  drawing  back  now  in  the  fear 
that  if  she  once  had  it  she  would  not 
yield  it  again,  "it's  gauin'  up  to  the 
Hoose!" 

"Toots  !  there's  naebody  there  seen  't 
yet.     It's  new  oot  o'  the  watter." 

"  But  Mistress  Courthope  was  doon 
last  nicht,  an'  wantit  the  best  I  could 
heuk." 

"  Mistress  Courthope  !  Wha  cares  for 
her  ?  A  mim,  cantin'  auld  body  !  Gie 
me  the  trootie,  Ma'colm.  Ye're  a  bonny 
laad,  an'  it  s'  be  the  better  for  ye." 

"'Deed  I  cudna  du  't,  Mistress  Cata- 
nach— though  I'm  sony  to  disobleege 
ye.  It's  bespoken,  ye  see.  But  there's 
a  fine  haddie,  an'  a  bonny  sma'  coddie, 
an'  a  goukmey  [gray  gnr7jard)." 

"Gae  'wa'  wi'  yer  baddies,  an'  yergouk- 
meys  !     Ye  sanna  gowk  7Jie  wi'  them." 

"Weel,  I  wadna  wonner,"  said  Mal- 
colm, "gien  Mrs.  Courthope  wad  like 
the  haddie  tu,  an'  maybe  the  lave  o' 
them  as  weel.  Hers  is  a  muckle  faimily 
to  baud  eatin'.  I'll  jist  gang  to  the 
Hoose  first  afore  I  mak  ony  mair  offers 
frae  my  creel." 

"Ye'll  lea'  the  troot  wi'  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Catanach  imperiously. 

"Na;  I  canna  du  that.  Ye  maun  see 
yersel'  'at  I  canna  !" 


z^ 


MALCOLM. 


The  woman's  face  grew  dark  with 
anger. 

"It  s'  be  the  watir  for  ye,"  she  cried. 

"  I'm  no  gauin'  to  be  fleyt  {frightened) 
at  ye.  Ye're  no  sic  a  witch  as  that  comes 
till,  though  ye  div  ken  a  body's  fit  upo' 
the  flags  !  My  blin'  luckie-deddy  can 
du  mair  nor  that !"  said  Malcolm,  irri- 
tated by  her  persistency,  threats  and  evil 
looks. 

"Daur  ye  me?"  she  returned,  her 
pasty  cheeks  now  red  as  fire,  and  her 
wicked  eyes  flashing  as  she  shook  her 
clenched  fist  at  him. 

"What  for  no?"  he  answered  coolly, 
turning  his  head  back  over  his  shoulder, 
for  he  was  already  on  his  way  to  the 
gate. 

"Ye  s'  ken  that,  ye  misbegotten  fun- 
lin' !"  shrieked  the  woman,  and  waddled 
hastily  into  the  house. 

"What  ails  her?"  said  Malcolm  to 
himself.  "  She  micht  ha'  seen'  'at  I  bude 
to  gie  Mrs.  Courthope  the  first  offer." 

By  a  winding  carriage-drive,  through 
trees  whose  growth  was  stunted  by  the 
sea-winds,  which  had  cut  off  their  tops 
as  with  a  keen  razor,  Malcolm  made  a 
slow  descent,  yet  was  soon  shadowed  by 
timber  of  a  more  prosperous  growth, 
rising  as  from  a  lake  of  the  loveliest 
green,  spangled  with  starrj'  daisies.  The 
air  was  full  of  sweet  odors  uplifted  with 
the  ascending  dew,  and  trembled  with  a 
hundred  songs  at  once,  for  here  was  a 
veiy  paradise  for  birds.  At  length  he 
came  in  sight  of  a  long  low  wing  of  the 
House,  and  went  to  the  door  that  led  to 
the  kitchen.  There  a  maid  informed 
him  that  Mrs.  Courthope  was  in  the  hall, 
and  he  had  better  take  his  basket  there, 
for  she  wanted  to  see  him.  He  obeyed, 
and  sought  the  main  entrance. 

The  house  was  an  ancient  pile,  mainly 
of  two  sides  at  right  angles,  but  with 
many  gables,  mostly  having  corbel-steps 
— a  genuine  old  Scottish  dwelling,  small- 
windowed  and  gray,  with  steep  slated 
roofs,  and  many  turrets,  each  with  a 
conical  top.  Some  of  these  turrets  rose 
from  the  ground,  encasing  spiral  stone 
stairs  ;  others  were  but  bartizans,  their  in- 
teriors forming  recesses  in  rooms.  They 
gave  the  house  something  of  the  air  of 


a  French  chateau,  only  it  looked  stronger 
and  far  grimmer.  Carved  around  some 
of  the  windows,  in  ancient  characters, 
were  Scripture  texts  and  antique  proverbs. 
Two  time-worn  specimens'  of  heraldic 
zoology,  in  a  state  of  fearful  and  ever- 
lasting excitement,  stood  rampant  and 
gaping,  one  on  each  side  of  the  hall- 
door,  contrasting  strangely  with  the  re- 
pose of  the  ancient  house,  which  looked 
very  like  what  the  oldest  part  of  it  was 
said  to  have  been — a  monastery.  It  had 
at  the  same  time,  however,  a  somewhat 
warlike  expression,  wherein  consisting 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  say ;  nor 
could  it  ever  have  been  capable  of  much 
defence,  although  its  position  in  that  re- 
gard was  splendid.  In  front  was  a  great 
gravel-space,  in  the  centre  of  whicli  lay 
a  huge  block  of  serpentine,  from  a  quar- 
ry on  the  estate,  filling  the  office  of  goal, 
being  the  pivot,  as  it  were,  around  which 
all  carriages  turned. 

On  one  side  of  the  house  was  a  great 
stone  bridge,  of  lofty  span,  stretching 
across  a  little  glen,  in  which  ran  a  brown 
stream  spotted  with  foam — the  same  that 
entered  the  frith  beside  the  Seaton ;  not 
muddy,  however,  for  though  dark  it  was 
clear — its  brown  being  a  rich  transpa- 
rent hue,  almost  red,  gathered  from  the 
peat-bogs  of  the  great  moorland  hill  be- 
hind. Only  a  very  narrow  terrace-walk, 
with  battlemented  parapet,  lay  between 
the  back  of  the  house  and  a  precipitous 
descent  of  a  hundred  feet  to  this  rivulet. 
Up  its  banks,  lovely  with  flowers  and 
rich  with  shrubs  and  trees  below,  you 
might  ascend  until  by  slow  gradations 
you  left  the  woods  and  all  culture  be- 
hind, and  found  yourself,  though  still 
within  the  precincts  of  Lossie  House,  on 
the  lonely  side  of  the  waste  hill,  a  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea. 

The  hall-door  stood  open,  and  just 
within  hovered  Mrs.  Courthope,  dusting 
certain  precious  things  not  to  be  handled 
by  a  housemaid.  This  portion  of  the 
building  was  so  narrow  that  the  hall  oc- 
cupied its  entire  width,  and  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  it  another  door,  standing 
also  open,  gave  a  glimpse  of  the  glen. 

"Good-morning,  Malcolm,"  said  Mrs. 
Courthope,  when   she   turned  and  saw 


MALCOLM. 


37 


whose  shadow  fell  on  the  marble  floor. 
"What  have  you  brought  me  ?" 

"A  fine  salmon-troot,  mem.  But  gien 
ye  had  hard  hoo  Mistress  Catanach  flytit 
[scolded)  at  me  'cause  I  wadna  gie  't  to 
her!  You  wad  hae  thocht,  mem,  she 
was  something  no  canny — the  w'y  'at 
she  first  beggit,  an'  syne  fleecht  [Jlatter- 
ed),  an  syne  a'  but  banned  an'  swore." 

"She's  a  peculiar  person,  that,  Mal- 
colm. Those  are  nice  whitings.  I  don't 
care  about  the  trout.  Just  take  it  to  her 
as  you  go  back." 

"  I  doobt  gien  she'll  take  it,  mem. 
She's  an  awfu'  vengefu'  cratur,  fowk 
says." 

"  You  remind  me,  Malcolm,"  returned 
Mrs.  Courthope,  "that  I  am  not  at  ease 
about  your  grandfather.  He  is  not  in  a 
Christian  frame  of  mind  at  all — and  he 
is  an  old  man  too.  If  we  don't  forgive 
our  enemies,  you  know,  the  Bible  plainly 
tells  us  we  shall  not  be  forgiven  our- 
selves." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  it  was  a  greater  nor  the 
Bible  said  that,  mem,"  returned  Mal- 
colm, who  was  an  apt  pupil  of  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. "But  ye'll  be  meaning  Cammill 
o'  Glenlyon,"  he  went  on  with  a  smile. 
"  It  canna  maitter  muckle  to  him  wheth- 
er my  gran'father  forgie  him  nr  no,  see- 
in'  he's  been  deid  this  hunner  year." 

"  It's  not  Campbell  of  Glenlyon,  it's 
your  grandfather  I  am  anxious  about," 
said  Mrs.  Courthope.  "Nor  is  it  only 
Campbell  of  Glenlyon  he's  so  fierce 
against,  but  all  his  posterity  as  well." 

"They  dinna  exist,  mem.  There's  no 
sic  a  bein'  o'  the  face  o'  the  yearth,  as  a 
descendant  o'  i/iat  Glenlyon." 

"It  makes  little  difference,  I  fear," 
said  Mrs.  Courthope,  who  was  no  bad 
logician.  "The  question  isn't  whether 
or  not  there's  anybody  to  forgive,  but 
whether  Duncan  MacPhail  is  willing  to 
forgive." 

"  That  I  do  believe  he  is,  mem ;  though 
he  wad  be  as  sair  astonished  to  hear  't 
as  ye  are  yersel'." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that, 
Malcolm." 

"I  mean,  mem,  'at  a  blin'  man,  like 
my  gran'father,  canna  ken  himsel'  richt, 
seein'  he  cajina  ken  ither  fowk  richt. 


It's  bykennin'  ither  fowk  'at  ye  come  to 
ken  yersel',  mem — isna  't  noo  ?" 

"Blindness  surely  doesn't  prevent  a 
man  from  knowing  other  people.  He 
hears  them,  and  he  feels  them,  and  in- 
deed has  generally  more  kindness  from 
them  because  of  his  affliction." 

"Frae  some  o'  them,  mem  ;  but  it's  lit- 
tle kin'ness  my  gran'father  has  expairi- 
enced  frae  Cammill  o'  Glenlyon,  mem." 

"And  just  as  little  injury,  I  should 
suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Courthope. 

"  Ye're  wrang  there,  mem  :  a  murder- 
ed mitlier  maun  be  an  unco  skaith  to 
oye's  oye  {grandson' s  gfajidson).  But 
supposin'  ye  to  be  richt,  what  I  say  's  to 
the  pint  for  a'  that.  I  maun  jist  explain 
a  wee. — Whan  I  was  a  laddie  at  the 
schule,  I  was  ance  tell't  that  ane  o'  the 
loons  was  i'  the  wye  o'  mockin'  my 
gran'father.  When  I  hard  it,  I  thocht  I 
cud  just  rive  the  hert  oot  o'  'm,  an'  set 
my  teeth  in  't,  as  the  Dutch  sodger  did 
to  the  Spaniard.  But  whan  I  got  a  grip 
o'  'im,  an'  the  rascal  turned  up  a  frichtit 
kin'  o'  a  dog-like  face  to  me,  I  jist  could 
not  drive  my  steiket  neive  [clenched fist) 
intil't.  Mem,  a  face  is  an  awfu'  thing ! 
There's  aye  something  luikin'  oot  o'  't 
'at  ye  canna  do  as  ye  like  wi'.  But  my 
gran'father  never  saw  a  face  in  's  Hfe — 
lat  alane  Glenlyon's  'at's  been  dirt  for  sae 
mony  a  year.  Gien  he  war  luikin'  intil 
the  face  o'  that  Glenlyon  even,  I  do  be- 
lieve he  would  no  more  drive  his  durk 
intill  him — " 

"  Drive  his  dirk  into  him  !"  echoed 
Mrs.  Courthope,  in  horror  at  the  very 
disclaimer. 

"  No,  I'm  sure  he  wad  not,"  persisted 
Malcolm,  innocently.  "  He  micht  not 
tak  him  oot  o'  a  pot  [hole  in  a  7-iver-bed), 
but  he  wad  neither  durk  him  nor  fling 
him  in.  I'm  no  that  sure  he  wadna 
even  rax  [reach)  him  a  han',  Ae  thing 
I  am  certain  o' — that  by  the"  time  he 
meets  Glenlyon  in  haven,  he'll  be  no 
that  far  frae  lattin'  by  -  ganes  be  by- 
ganes." 

"Meets  Glenlyon  in  heaven!"  again 
echoed  Mrs.  Courthope,  who  knew 
enough  of  the  story  to  be  startled  at  the 
taken-for-granted  way  in  which  Mal- 
colm   spoke.      "Is    it   probable   that   a 


38 


MALCOLM. 


wretch  such  as  your  legends  describe 
him  should  ever  get  there  ?" 

"Ye  dinna  think  God's  forgien  him, 
than,  mem?" 

"I  have  no  right  to  judge  Glenlyon, 
or  any  other  man ;  but  as  you  ask  me,  1 
must  say  I  see  no  likelihood  of  it." 

"Hoo  can  ye  compleen  o'  my  puir 
blin'  grandfather  for  no  forgiein'  him, 
than  ? — I  hae  ye  there,  mem  !" 

"  He  tnay  have  repented,  you  know," 
said  Mrs.  Courthope  feebly,  finding  her- 
self in  less  room  than  was  comfortable. 

"  In  sic  case,"  returned  Malcolm,  "the 
auld  man  '11  hear  a'  aboot  it  the  meenit 
p  he  wins  there  ;  an'  I  mak  nae  doobt  he'll 
du  his  best  to  perswaud  himsel'." 

"But  what  if  he  shouldn't  get  there  ?" 
persisted  Mrs.  Courthope,  in  pure  benev- 
olence. 

"  Hoot  toot,  mem  !  I  wonner  to  hear 
ye  !  A  Cammill  latten  in,  and  my  gran'- 
father  hauden  oot!  That  wad  be  jist 
yallow-faced  Willie  ower  again  !  *  Na, 
na ;  things  gang  anither  gait  up  there. 
My  gran'father's  a  rale  guid  man,  for  a' 
'at  he  has  a  wye  o'  luikin'  at  things  'at's 
mair  efter  the  law  nor  the  gospel." 

Apparently,  Mrs.  Courthope  had  come 
at  length  to  the  conclusion  that  Malcolm 
wasas  much  of  a  heathen  as  his  grand- 
father, for  in  silence  she  chose  her  fish, 
in  silence  paid  him  his  price,  and  then 
with  only  a  sad  Good-day,  turned  and 
left  him. 

He  would  have  gone  back  by  the  river- 
side to  the  sea-gate,  but  Mrs.  Courthope 
having  waived  her  right  to  the  fish  in 
favor  of  Mrs.  Catanach,  he  felt  bound  to 
give  her  another  chance,  and  so  returned 
the  way  he  had  come. 

"  Here's  yer  troot,  Mistress  Cat'nach," 
he  called  aloud  at  her  door,  which  gen- 
erally stood  a  little  ajar.  "Ye  s'  hae  't 
for  the  saxpence — an'  a  guid  bargain  tu, 
for  ane  o'  sic  dimensions!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  held  the  fish  in  at  the 
door,  but  his  eyes  were  turned  to  the 
main  street,  whence  the  factor's  gig  was 
at  the  moment  rounding  the  corner  into 
that  in  which  he  stood ;  when  suddenly 
the  salmon-trout  was  snatched  from  his 

*  Lord  Stair,  the  prime  mover  in  the  massacre  of 
Glencoe. 


hand,  and  flung  so  violently  in  his  face, 
that  he  staggered  back  into  the  road : 
the  factor  had  to  pull  sharply  up  to  avoid 
driving  over  him.  His  rout  rather  than 
retreat  was  followed  by  a  burst  of  in- 
sulting laughter,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, out  of  the  house  rushed  a  large 
vile-looking  mongrel,  with  hair  like  an 
ill-used  door-mat  and  an  abbreviated 
nose,  fresh  from  the  ashpit,  caught  up 
the  trout,  and  rushed  with  it  toward  the 
gate. 

"That's  richt,  my  bairn!"  shouted 
Mrs.  Catanach  to  the  brute  as  he  ran : 
"tak  it  to  Mrs.  Courthope.  Tak  it  back 
wi'  my  compliments." 

Amidst  a  burst  of  malign  laughter  she 
slammed  her  door,  and  from  a  window 
sideways  watched  the  young  fisherman. 

As  he  stood  looking  after  the  dog  in 
wrath  and  bewilderment,  the  factor  hav- 
ing recovered  from  the  fit  of  merriment 
into  which  the  sudden  explosion  of  events 
had  cast  him,  and  succeeded  in  quieting 
his  scared  horse,  said,  slackening  his 
reins  to  move  on, 

"You  sell  your  fish  too  cheap,  Mal- 
colm." 

"  The  deil's  i'  the  tyke,"  rejoined  Mal- 
colm, and,  seized  at  last  by  a  sense  of  the 
ludicrousrtess  of  the  whole  affair,  burst 
out  laughing,  and  turned  for  the  High 
street. 

"Na,  na,  laddie;  the  deil's  no  awa'  in 
sic  a  hurry  :  he  bed  {remained^,"  said  a 
voice  behind  him. 

Malcolm  turned  again  and  lifted  his 
bonnet.  It  was  Miss  Horn,  who  had 
come  up  from  the  Seaton. 

"  Did  ye  see  yon,  mem  ?"  he  asked. 

"Ay,  weel  that,  as  I  cam  up  the  brae. 
Dinna  stan'  there,  laddie.  The  jaud  '11 
be  watchin'  ye  like  a  cat  watchin'  a 
moose.  I  ken  her !  She's  a  cat-wuman, 
an'  I  canna  bide  her.  She's  no  mowse 
[^safe  to  totcch).  She's  in  secrets  mair 
nor  guid,  I  s'  wad  [luagcr).  Come  awa' 
wi'  me  ;  I  want  a  bit  fish.  I  can  ill  eat 
an'  her  lyin'  deid  i'  the  hoose — it  winna 
gang  ower ;  but  I  maun  get  some  strength 
pittcn  intill  me  afore  the  beerial.  It's  a 
God's-mercy  I  wasna  made  wi'  feclin's, 
or  wliat  wad  hae  come  o'  me  !  Whaur's 
the  gude  o'  grcitin'  ?     It's  no  worth  the 


MALCOLM. 


39 


saut  i'  the  waiter  o'  't,  Ma'colm.  It's  an 
ill  wardle,  an'  micht  be  a  bonny  ane — 
gien't  warna  for  ill  men." 

"  Dod,  mem  !  I'm  thinkin'  mair  aboot 
ill  women,  at  this  present,"  said  Mal- 
colm. "Maybe  there's  no  sic  a  thing, 
but  yon's  unco  like  ane.  As  bonny  a 
sawmon-troot  's  ever  ye  saw,  mem  !  It's 
a'  I'm  cawpable  o'  to  haud  ohn  cursed 
that  foul  tyke  o'  hers." 

"Hoot,  laddie  !  haud  yer  tongue." 
"Ay  will  I.     I'm  no  gaun  to  du  't,  ye 
ken.     But  sic  a  fine  troot  's  that — the 
verra  ane  ye  wad  hae  likit,  mem !" 

"Never  ye  min'  the  troot.  There's 
mair  whaur  that  cam  frae.  What  anger't 
her  at  ye  ?" 

"Naething  mair  nor  that  I  bude  to  gie 
Mistress  Courthope  the  first  wale  [choice) 
o'  my  fish." 

"  The  wuman's  no  worth  yer  notice, 
'cep  to  haud  oot  o'  her  gait,  laddie  ;  an' 
that  ye  had  better  luik  till,  for  she's  no 
canny.  Dinna  ye  anger  her  again  gien 
ye  can  help  it.  She  has  an  ill  luik,  an' 
I  canna  bide  her. — Hae,  there's  yer  siller. 
Jean,  tak  in  this  fish." 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  conver- 
sation they  had  been  standing  at  the 
door,  while  Miss  Horn  ferreted  the  need- 
ful pence  from  a  pocket  under  her  gown. 
She  now  entered,  but  as  Malcolm  waited 
for  Jean  to  take  the  fish,  she  turned  on 
the  threshold,  and  said — 

"Wad  ye  no  like  to  see  her,  Ma'colm? 
— A  guid  frien'  she  was  to  you,  sae  lang 
's  she  was  here,"  she  added  after  a  short 
pause. 

The  youth  hesitated. 
"I  never  saw  a  corp  i'  my  life,  mem, 
an'  I'm  jist  some  feared,"  he  said,  after 
another  brief  silence. 

"Hoot,  laddie !"  returned  Miss  Horn, 
in  a  somewhat  offended  tone — "That'll 
be  what  comes  o'  haein'  feelin's.  A 
bonny  corp  's  the  bonniest  thing  in  crea- 
tion— an'  that  quaiet ! — Eh  !  sic  a  heap 
o'  them  as  there  has  been  sin'  Awbel," 
she  went  on — "  an  ilk  ane  o'  them  luik- 
in'  as  gien  there  never  had  been  anither 
but  itsel' !  Ye  oucht  to  see  a  corp,  Ma'- 
colm. Ye'll  hae't  to  du  afore  ye're  ane 
yersel',  an'  ye'U  never  see  a  bonnier  nor 
my  Grizel." 


"Be  't  to  yer  wuU,  mem,"  said  Mal- 
colm resignedly. 

At  once  she  led  the  way,  and  he  fol- 
lowed her  in  silence  up  the  stair  and  into 
the  dead-chamber. 

There  on  the  white  bed  lay  the  long, 
black,  misshapen  thing  she  had  called 
"the  bit  boxie  ;"  and  with  a  strange  sink- 
ing at  the  heart,  Malcolm  approached  it. 

Miss  Horn's  hand  came  from  behind 
him,  and  withdrew  a  covering  :  there  lay 
a  vision  lovely  indeed  to  behold  ! — a  fix- 
ed evanescence — a  listening  stillness — 
awful,  yet  with  a  look  of  entreaty,  at 
once  resigned  and  unyielding,  that 
strangely  drew  the  heart  of  Malcolm. 
He  saw  a  low  white  forehead,  large  eye- 
balls upheaving  closed  lids,  finely-mod- 
eled features  of  which  the  tightened  skin 
showed  all  the  delicacy,  and  a  mouth  of 
suffering  whereon  the  vanishing  Psyche 
had  left  the  shadow  of  the  smile  with 
which  she  awoke.  The  tears  gathered 
in  his  eyes,  and  Miss  Horn  saw  them. 

"Ye  maun  lay  yer  han'  upo'  her,  Ma'- 
colm," she  said.  "Ye  sud  aye  touch  the 
deid,  to  haud  ye  ohn  dreamed  aboot 
them." 

"I  wad  be  laith,"  answered  Malcolm; 
"she  wad  be  ower  bonny  a  dream  to 
miss. — Are  they  a'  like  that  ?"  he  added, 
speaking  under  his  breath. 

"Na,  'deed  no!"  replied  Miss  Horn, 
with  mild  indignation.  "Wad  ye  expec' 
Bawby  Cat'nach  to  luik  like  that,  no  ? — 
I  beg  yer  pardon  for  mentionin'  the  wu- 
man,  my  dear,"  she  added  with  sudden 
divergence,  bending  toward  the  still  face, 
and  speaking  in  a  tenderly  apologetic 
tone;  "I  ken  weel  ye  canna  bide  the 
verra  name  o'  her ;  but  it  s'  be  the  last 
time  ye  s'  hear  't  to  a'  eternity,  my  doc," 
Then  turning  again  to  Malcolm — "Lay 
yer  han'  upon  her  broo,  I  tell  ye,"  she  said. 

"I  daurna,"  replied  the  youth,  still 
under  his  breath;  "my  ban's  are  no 
clean.  I  wadna  for  the  warl'  touch  her 
wi'  fishy  ban's." 

The  same  moment,  moved  by  a  sud- 
den impulse,  whose  irresistibleness  was 
veiled  in  his  unconsciousness,  he  bent 
down,  and  put  his  lips  to  the  forehead. 

As  suddenly  he  started  back  erect, 
with  dismay  on  every  feature. 


40 


MALCOLM. 


"  Eh,  mem !"  he  cried  in  an  agonized 
whisper,  "she's  dooms  cauld  !" 

"What  sud  she  be?"  retorted  Miss 
Horn.   "  Wad  ye  hae  her  beeried  warm  ?" 

He  followed  her  from  the  room  in 
silence,  with  the  sense  of  a  faint  sting 
on  his  lips.  She  led  him  into  her  parlor, 
and  gave  him  a  glass  of  wine. 

"Ye'll  come  to  the  beerial  upo'  Setter- 
day?"  she  asked,  half  inviting,  half  in- 
quiring. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say,  mem,  'at  I  canna," 
he  answered.  "  I  promised  Maister  Gra- 
ham to  tak  the  schule  for  him,  an'  lat 
him  gang." 

"  Weel,  weel !  Mr.  Graham's  obleeged 
to  ye,  nae  doobt,  an'  we  canna  help  it. 
Gie  my  compliments  to  yer  gran'father," 
she  said. 

"I'll  du  that,  mem.  He'll  be  sair 
pleased,  for  he's  unco  gratefu'  for  ony 
sic  attention,"  said  Malcolm,  and  with 
the  words  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  X. 
THE   FUNERAL. 

That  night  the  weather  changed,  and 
grew  cloudy  and  cold.  Saturday  morn- 
ing broke  drizzly  and  dismal.  A  north- 
east wind  tore  off  the  tops  of  the  drear- 
ily tossing  billows.  All  was  gray — en- 
during, hopeless  gray.  Along  the  coast 
the  waves  kept  roaring  on  the  sands, 
persistent  and  fateful ;  the  Scaurnose 
was  one  mass  of  foaming  white ;  and  in 
the  caves  still  haunted  by  the  tide,  the 
bellowing  was  like  that  of  thunder. 

Through  the  drizzle-shot  wind  and  the 
fog  blown  in  shreds  from  the  sea,  a  large 
number  of  the  most  respectable  of  the 
male  population  of  the  burgh,  clothed 
in  Sunday  gloom  deepened  by  the  crape 
on  their  hats,  made  their  way  to  Miss 
Horn's,  for,  despite  her  rough  manners, 
she  was  held  in  high  repute.  It  was  only 
such  as  had  reason  to  dread  the  secret 
communication  between  closet  and  house- 
top, that  feared  her  tongue  ;  if  she  spoke 
loud,  she  never  spoke  false,  or  backbit 
in  the  dark.  What,  chiefly  conduced, 
however,  to  the  respect  in  wliich  she  was 
held,  was  that  she  was  one  of  their  own 


people,  her  father  having  died  minister 
of  the  parish  some  twenty  years  before. 
Comparatively  little  was  known  of  her 
deceased  cousin,  who  had  been  much 
of  an  invalid,  and  had  mostly  kept  to 
the  house,  but  all  had  understood  that 
Miss  Horn  was  greatly  attached  to  her; 
and  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the  living 
mainly  that  the  dead  was  thus  honored. 

As  the  prayer  drew  to  a  close,  the 
sounds  of  trampling  and  scuffling  feet 
bore  witness  that  Watty  Witherspail  and 
his  assistants  were  carrying  the  coffin 
down  the  stair.  Soon  the  company  rose 
to  follow  it,  and  trooping  out,  arranged 
themselves  behind  the  hearse,  which, 
horrid  with  nodding  plumes  and  gold 
and  black  paneling,  drew  away  from  the 
door  to  make  room  for  them. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  move  off,  to 
the  amazement  of  the  company  and  the 
few  onlookers  who,  notwithstanding  the 
weather,  stood  around  to  represent  the 
commonalty,  Miss  Horn  herself,  solitary, 
in  a  long  black  cloak  and  somewhat 
awful  bonnet,  issued,  and  made  her  way 
through  the  mourners  until  she  stood 
immediately  behind  the  hearse,  by  the 
side  of  Mr.  Cairns  the  parish  minister. 
The  next  moment,  Watty  Witherspail, 
who  had  his  station  at  the  farther  side  of 
the  hearse,  arriving  somehow  at  a  know- 
ledge of  the  apparition,  came  round  by 
the  horses'  heads,  and  with  a  look  of 
positive  alarm  at  the  glaring  infringe- 
ment of  time-honored  customs,  address- 
ed her  in  half-whispered  tones  expostu- 
latory. 

"Ye'll  never  be  thinkin'  o'  gauin'  ycr- 
sel',  mem  !"  he  said. 

"What  for  no,  Watty,  I  wad  like  to 
ken  ?"  growled  Miss  Horn  from  the  vault- 
ed depths  of  her  bonnet. 

"The  like  was  never  hard  tell  o' !" 
returned  Watty,  with  the  dismay  of  an 
orthodox  undertaker,  righteously  jealous 
of  all  innovation. 

"  It  'U  be  to  tell  o'  hencefurth,"  rejoin- 
ed Miss  Horn,  who  in  her  risen  anger 
spoke  aloud,  caring  nothing  who  heard 
her.  "  Daur/d-  preshumc,  Watty  Wither- 
spail," she  went  on,  "for  no  rizzon  but 
that  I  ga'e  you  the  job,  an'  unnertook  to 
pay  ye  for't — an'  that  far  abune  its  mar- 


MALCOLM. 


41 


ket  value — daur  ye  preshume,  I  say,  to 
dictate  to  vie  what  I'm  to  du  an'  what 
I'm  no  to  du  anent  the  maitter  in  han'  ? 
Think  ye  I  hae  been  a  mither  to  the  puir 
yoong  thing  for  sae  mony  a  year  to  lat 
her  gang  awa'  her  lane  at  the  last  wi' 
the  likes  oi  you  for  company  ?" 

"Hoot,  mem!  there's  the  minister  at 
your  elbuck." 

"  I  tell  ye,  ye're  but  a  wheen  rouch 
men-fowk  !  There's  no  a  woman  amon' 
ye  to  baud  things  dacent,  'cep  I  gang 
mysel'.  I'm  no  beggin'  the  minister's 
pardoii  aither.  /'//  ga7ig.  I  viaim  see 
my  puir  Grizel  till  her  last  bed." 

"  I  dread  it  may  be  too  much  for  your 
feelings,  Miss  Horn,"  said  the  minister, 
who  being  an  ambitious  young  man  of 
lowly  origin,  and  very  shy  of  the  ridic- 
ulous, did  not  in  the  least  wish  her 
company. 

"Feelin's!"  exclaimed  ]\Iiss  Horn  in 
a  tone  of  indignant  repudiation;  "I'm 
gauin'  to  du  what's  richt.  I  's  gatig, 
and  gien  ye  dinna  like  my  company, 
Mr.  Cairns,  ye  can  gang  hame,  an'  I  s' 
gang  withoot  ye.  Gien  she  sud  happen 
to  be  luikin  doon,  she  sanna  see  me 
wantin'  at  the  last  o'  her.  But  I  s'  mak' 
no  wark  aboot  it.  I  s'  no  putt  mysel' 
ower  forret." 

And  ere  the  minister  could  utter  an- 
other syllable,  she  had  left  her  place  to 
go  to  the  rear.  The  same  instant  the 
procession  began  to  move,  corpse-mar- 
shaled, toward  the  grave;  and  stepping 
aside,  she  stood  erect,  sternly  eyeing  the 
irregular  ranks  of  two  and  three  and 
four  as  they  passed  her,  intending  to 
bring  up  the  rear  alone.  But  already 
there  was  one  in  that  solitary  position  : 
with  bowed  head,  Alexander  Graham 
walked  last  and  single.  The  moment 
he  caught  sight  of  Miss  Horn,  he  per- 
ceived her  design,  and,  lifting  his  hat, 
offered  his  arm.  She  took  it  almost 
eagerly,  and  together  they  followed  in 
silence,  through  the  gusty  wind  and  mo- 
notonous drizzle. 

The  school-house  was  close  to  the 
churchyard.  An  instant  hush  fell  upon 
the  scholars  when  the  hearse  darkened 
the  windows,  lasting  while  the  horrible 
thing  slowly  turned  to   enter  the   iron 


gates — a  deep  hush,  as  if  a  wave  of  the 
eternal  silence  which  rounds  all  our 
noises,  had  broken  across  its  barriers. 
The  mad  laird  who  had  been  present  all 
the  morning,  trembled  from  head  to  foot ; 
yet  rose  and  went  to  the  door  with  a  look 
of  strange,  subdued  eagerness.  When 
Miss  Horn  and  Mr.  Graham  had  passed 
into  the  churchyard,  he  followed. 

With  the  bending  of  uncovered  heads, 
in  a  final  gaze  of  leave-taking,  over  the 
coffin  at  rest  in  the  bottom  of  the  grave, 
all  that  belonged  to  the  ceremony  of 
burial  was  fulfilled ;  but  the  two  facts 
that  no  one  left  the  churchyard,  although 
the  wind  blew  and  the  rain  fell,  until  the 
mound  of  sheltering  earth  was  heaped 
high  over  the  dead,  and  that  the  hands 
of  many  friends  assisted  with  spade  and 
shovel,  did  much  to  compensate  for  the 
lack  of  a  service. 

As  soon  as  this  labor  was  ended,  Mr. 
Graham  again  offered  his  arm  to  Miss 
Horn,  who  had  stood  in  perfect  calmness 
watching  the  whole  with  her  eagle's- 
eyes.  But  although  she  accepted  his 
offer,  instead  of  moving  toward  the  gate 
she  kept  her  position  in  the  attitude  of 
a  hostess  who  will  follow  her  friends. 
They  were  the  last  to  go  from  the 
churchyard.  When  they  reached  the 
schoolhouse  she  would  have  had  Mr. 
Graham  leave  her,  but  he  insisted  on 
seeing  her  home.  Contrary  to  her  habit 
she  yielded  and  they  slowly  followed  the 
retiring  company. 

"Safe  at  last !"  half-sighed  Miss  Hoi^n, 
as  they  entered  the  town — her  sole  re- 
mark on  the  way. 

Rounding  a  corner,  they  came  upon 
Mrs.  Catanach  standing  at  a  neighbor's 
door,  gazing  out  upon  nothing,  as  was 
her  wonf  at  times,  but  talking  to  some 
one  in  the  house  behind  her.  Miss  Horn 
turned  her  head  aside  as  she  passed.  A 
look  of  low,  malicious,  half-triumphant 
cunning  lightened  across  the  puffy  face 
of  the  howdy.  She  cocked  one  bushy 
eyebrow,  setting  one  eye  wide  open,  drew 
down  the  other  eyebrow,  nearly  closing 
the  eye  under  it,  and  stood  looking  after 
them  thus  until  they  were  out  of  sight. 
Then  turning  her  head  over  her  shoul- 
der, she  burst  into  a  laugh,  softly  husky 


42 


MALCOLM. 


with  the  general  flabbiness  of  her  cor- 
poreal conditions. 

"What  ails  ye,  Mistress  Catanach  ?" 
cried  a  voice  from  within. 

"Sic  a  couple  's  yon  twasum  wad 
male !"  she  replied,  again  bursting  into 
gelatinous  laughter. 

"Wha,  than?  I  canna  lea'  my  milk- 
parritch  to  come  an'  luik." 

"  Ow !  jist  Meg  Horn,  the  auld  kail- 
runt,  an'  Sanny  Graham,  the  stickit  min- 
ister. I  wad  like  weel  to  be  at  the  bed- 
din'  o'  them.  Eh  !  the  twa  heids  o' 
them  upon  ae  bowster !" 

And  chuckling  a  low  chuckle,  Mrs. 
Catanach  moved  for  her  own  door. 

As  soon  as  the  churchyard  was  clear 
of  the  funeral  train,  the  mad  laird  peeped 
from  behind  a  tall  stone,  gazed  cautious- 
ly around  him,  and  then  with  slow  steps 
came  and  stood  over  the  new-made 
grave,  where  the  sexton  was  now  laying 
the  turf,  "to  mak  a'  snod  [Jrwi)  for  the 
Sawbath." 

"Whaur  is  she  gan  till  ?"  he  murmur- 
ed to  himself. — He  could  generally  speak 
better  when  merely  uttering  his  thoughts 
without  attempt  at  communication. — "  I 
dinna  ken  whaur  I  cam  frae,  an'  I  dinna 
ken  whaur  she's  gane  till ;  but  whan  I 
gang  mysel',  maybe  I'll  ken  baith. — I 
dinna  ken,  I  dinna  ken,  I  dinna  ken 
whaur  I  cam  frae." 

Thus  muttering,  so  lost  in  the  thoughts 
that  originated  them  that  he  spoke  the 
words  mechanically,  he  left  the  church- 
yard, and  returned  to  the  school,  where, 
under  the  superintendence  of  Malcolm, 
everything  had  been  going  on  in  the 
usual  Saturday  fashion — the  work  of  the 
d.iy  which  closed  the  week's  labors  be- 
ing to  repeat  a  certain  number  of  ques- 
tions of  the  Shorter  Catechism  (which 
term,  alas  !  included  the  answers),  and 
next  to  buttress  them  with  a  number  of 
suffering  caryatids,  as  it  were — texts  of 
Scripture,  I  mean,  first  petrified  and  then 
dragged  into  the  service.  Before  Mr. 
Graham  returned,  every  one  had  done 
his  part  except  Shcltie,  who,  excellent 
at  asking  cjuestions  for  himself,  had  a 
very  poor  memory  for  the  answers  to 
those  of  other  people,  and  was  in  conse- 
quence often  a  kecpie-in.     He  did  not 


generally  heed  it  much,  however,  for  the 
master  was  not  angry  with  him  on  such 
occasions,  and  they  gave  him  an  op- 
portunity of  asking  in  his  turn  a  mul- 
titude of  questions  of  his  own. 

When  he  entered  he  found  Malcolm 
reading  77/,?  Tempest,  and  Sheltie  sitting 
in  the  middle  of  the  waste  schoolroom, 
with  his  elbows  on  the  desk  before  him, 
and  his  head  and  the  Shorter  Catechism 
between  them  ;  while  in  the  farthest  cor- 
ner sat  Mr.  Stewart,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground,  murmuring  his  answer 
less  questions  to  himself. 

"  Come  up,  Sheltie,"  said  Mr.  Graham, 
anxious  to  let  the  boy  go.  "  Which  of 
the  questions  did  you  break  down  in  to- 
day ?" 

"  Please,  sir,  I  cudna  rest  i'  my  grave 
till  the  resurrection,"  answered  Sheltie, 
with  but  a  dim  sense  of  the  humor  in- 
volved in  the  reply. 

"'What  benefits  do  believers  receive 
from  Christ  at  death  ?'  "  said  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, putting  the  question  with  a  smile. 

"'The  souls  of  believers  are  at  their 
death  made  perfect  in  holiness,  and  do 
immediately  pass  into  glory ;  and  their 
bodies,  being  still  united  to  Christ,  do 
rest  in  their  graves  till  the  resurrec- 
tion,' "  replied  Sheltie,  now  with  perfect 
accuracy  ;  whereupon  the  master,  fear- 
ing the  outbreak  of  a  torrent  of  coun- 
ter -  questions,  made  haste  to  dismiss 
him. 

"That'll  do,  Sheltie,"  he  said.  "Run 
home  to  your  dinner." 

Sheltie  shot  from  the  room  like  a  shell 
from  a  mortar. 

He  had  barely  vanished  when  Mr. 
Stewart  rose  and  came  slowly  from  his 
corner,  his  legs  appearing  to  tremble 
under  the  weight  of  his  hump,  which 
moved  fitfully  up  and  down  in  his  futile 
attempts  to  utter  the  word  resun-ection. 
As  he  advanced,  he  kept  heaving  one 
shoulder  forward,  as  if  he  would  fain 
bring  his  huge  burden  to  the  front,  and 
hold  it  out  in  mute  appeal  to  his  instruct- 
or ;  but  before  reaching  him  he  suddenly 
stopped,  lay  down  on  the  floor  on  his 
Ixick,  and  commenced  rolling  from  side 
to  side,  with  moans  and  complaints. 
Mr.  Graham  interpreted  the  action  into 


MALCOLM. 


43 


the  question — How  was  such  a  body  as 
his  to  rest  in  its  grave  till  the  resurrection 
— perched  thus  on  its  own  back  in  the 
coffin  ?  All  the  answer  he  could  think 
of  was  to  lay  hold  of  his  hand,  lift 
him,  and  point  upward.  The  poor  fellow 
shook  his  head,  glanced  over  his  shoul- 


der at  his  hump,  and  murmured,  "  Heavy, 
heavy  !"  seeming  to  imply  that  it  would 
be  hard  for  him  to  rise  and  ascend  at  the 
last  day. 

He  had  doubtless  a  dim  notion  that  all 
his  trouble  had  to  do  with  his  hump. 


ipj^T^ro   XXX. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
THE   OLD   CHURCH. 

THE  next  day,  the  day  of  the  Resur- 
rection, rose  glorious  from  its  sepul- 
chre of  sea-fog  and  drizzle.  It  had  pour- 
ed all  night  long,  but  at  sunrise  the  clouds 
had  broken  and  scattered,  and  the  air 
was  the  purer  for  the  cleansing  rain, 
while  the  earth  shone  with  that  peculiar 
lustre  which  follows  the  weeping  which 
has  endured  its  appointed  night.  The 
larks  were  at  it  again,  singing  as  if  their 
hearts  would  break  for  joy  as  they  hover- 
ed in  brooding  exultation  over  the  song 
of  the  future  ;  for  their  nests  beneath 
hoarded  a  wealth  of  larks  for  summers  to 
come.  Especially  about  the  old  church 
— half  buried  in  the  ancient  trees  of  Los- 
sie  House — the  birds  that  day  were  jubi- 
lant ;  their  throats  seemed  too  narrow  to 
let  out  the  joyful  air  that  filled  all  their 
hollow  bones  and  quills :  they  sang  as 
if  they  must  sing,  or  choke  with  too  much 
gladness.  Beyond  the  short  spire  and 
its  shining  cock,  rose  the  balls  and  stars 
and  arrowy  vanes  of  the  House,  glitter- 
ing in  gold  and  sunshine. 

The  inward  hush  of  the  Resurrection, 
broken  only  by  the  prophetic  birds,  the 
poets  of  the  groaning  and  travailing 
creation,  held  time  and  space  as  in  a 
trance ;  and  the  centre  from  which  radi- 
ated both  the  hush  and  the  caroling  ex- 
pectation seemed  to  Alexander  Graham 
to  be  the  churchyard  in  which  he  was 
now  walking  in  the  cool  of  the  morning. 
It  was  more  carefully  kept  than  most 
Scottish  churchyards,  and  yet  was  not 
too  trim  :  Nature  had  a  word  in  the  affair 
— was  allowed  her  part  of  mourning,  in 
long  grass  and  moss  and  the  crumbling 
away  of  stone.  The  wholcsomeness  of 
decay,  which  both  in  nature  and  human- 
ity is  but  the  miry  road  back  to  life,  was 
not  unrecognized  here  ;  there  was  noth- 
ing of  the  hideous  attempt  to  hide  death 
in  the  garments  of  life.  The  master 
44 


walked  about  gently,  now  stopping  to 
read  some  well-known  inscription  and 
ponder  for  a  moment  over  the  words ; 
and  now  wandering  across  the  stoneless 
mounds,  content  to  be  forgotten  by  all 
but  those  who  loved  the  departed.  At 
length  he  seated  himself  on  a  slab  by 
the  side  of  the  mound  that  rose  but  yes- 
terday :  it  was  sculptured  with  symbols  of 
decay — needless  surely  where  the  origi- 
nals lay  about  the  mouth  of  every  newly 
opened  grave,  and  as  surely  ill-befitting 
the  precincts  of  a  church  whose  indwell- 
ing gospel  is  of  life  victorious  over  death  ! 

"What  are  these  stones,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "but  monuments  to  oblivion? 
They  are  not  memorials  of  the  dead,  but 
memorials  of  the  forgetfulness  of  the 
living.  How  vain  it  is  to  send  a  poor 
forsaken  name,  like  the  title-page  of  a 
lost  book,  down  the  careless  stream  of 
time  !  Let  me  serve  my  generation,  and 
let  God  remember  me  !" 

The  morning  wore  on ;  the  sun  rose 
higher  and  higher.  He  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  Nosce  Teipsum  of  Sir  John 
Davies,  and  was  still  reading,  in  quiet 
enjoyment  of  the  fine  logic  of  the  lawyer- 
poet,  when  he  heard  the  church  key,  in 
the  trembling  hand  of  Jonathan  Auld- 
buird,  the  sexton,  jar  feebly  battling  with 
the  reluctant  lock.  Soon  the  people  be- 
gan to  gather,  mostly  in  groups  and  cou- 
ples. At  length  came  solitary  Miss  Horn, 
whom  the  neighbors,  from  respect  to  her 
sorrow,  had  left  to  walk  alone.  But  Mr. 
Graham  went  to  meet  her,  and  accom- 
panied her  into  the  church. 

It  was  a  cruciform  building,  as  old  as 
the  vanished  monastery,  and  the  burial- 
place  of  generations  of  noble  blood ;  the 
dust  of  royalty  even  lay  under  its  floor. 
A  knight  of  stone  reclined  cross-legged 
in  a  niche  with  an  arched  Norman  can- 
opy in  one  of  the  walls,  the  rest  of  which 
was  nearly  encased  in  large  tablets  of 
white  marble,  for  at  its  foot  lay  the  ashes 


MALCOLM. 


45 


of  barons  and  earls  whose  title  was  ex- 
tinct, and  whose  lands  had  been  inherit- 
ed by  the  family  of  Lossie.  Inside  as 
well  as  outside  of  the  church  the  ground 
had  risen  with  the  dust  of  generations, 
so  that  the  walls  were  low ;  and  heavy 
galleries  having  been  erected  in  parts, 
the  place  was  filled  with  shadowy  re- 
cesses and  haunted  with  glooms.  From 
a  window  in  the  square  pew  where  he 
sat,  so  small  and  low  that  he  had  to  bend 
his  head  to  look  out  of  it,  the  school- 
master could  see  a  rivulet  of  sunshine, 
streaming  through  between  two  upright 
gravestones,  and  glorifying  the  long 
grass  of  a  neglected  mound  that  lay 
close  to  the  wall  under  the  wintry  drip 
from  the  eaves :  when  he  raised  his  head, 
the  church  looked  very  dai'k.  The  best 
way  there  to  preach  the  Resurrection,  he 
thought,  would  be  to  contrast  the  sepul- 
chral gloom  of  the  church,  its  dreary 
psalms  and  drearier  sermons,  with  the 
sunlight  on  the  graves,  the  lark-filled 
sky,  and  the  wind  blowing  where  it  list- 
ed. But  although  the  minister  was  a 
young  man  of  the  commonest  order, 
educated  to  the  church  that  he  might 
eat  bread,  hence  a  mere  willing  slave  to 
the  beck  of  his  lord  and  master,  the 
patron,  and  but  a  parrot  in  the  pulpit, 
the  schoolmaster  not  only  endeavored  to 
pour  his  feelings  and  desires  into  the 
mould  of  his  prayers,  but  listened  to  the 
sermon  with  a  countenance  that  revealed 
no  distaste  for  the  weak  and  unsavory 
broth  ladled  out  to  him  to  nourish  his 
soul  withal.  When,  however,  the  service 
— though  whose  purposes  the  affair  could 
be  supposed  to  serve  except  those  of  Mr. 
Cairns  himself,  would  have  been  a  curi- 
ous question — was  over,  he  did  breathe  a 
sigh  of  relief;  and  when  he  stepped  out 
into  the  sun  and  wind  which  had  been 
shining  and  blowing  all  the  time  of  the 
dreary  ceremony,  he  wondered  whether 
the  larks  might  not  have  had  the  best  of 
it  in  the  God-praising  that  had  been  going 
on  for  two  slow-paced  hours.  Yet,  having 
been  so  long  used  to  the  sort  of  thing, 
he  did  not  mind  it  half  so  much  as  his 
friend  Malcolm,  who  found  the  Sunday 
observances  an  unspeakable  weariness 
to  both  flesh  and  spirit. 


On  the  present  occasion,  however, 
Malcolm  did  not  find  the  said  observ- 
ances dreary,  for  he  observed  nothing 
but  the  vision  which  radiated  from  the 
dusk  of  the  small  gallery  forming  the 
Lossie  pew,  directly  opposite  the  Norman 
canopy  and  stone  crusader.  Unconven- 
tional, careless  girl  as  Lady  Florimel  had 
hitherto  shown  herself  to  him,  he  saw  her 
sit  that  morning  like  the  proudest  of  her 
race,  alone,  and,  to  all  appearance,  un- 
aware of  a  single  other  person's  being 
in  the  church  besides  herself.  She  mani- 
fested no  interest  in  what  was  going  on, 
nor  indeed  felt  any — how  could  she  ? — 
never  parted  her  lips  to  sing ;  sat  during 
the  prayer ;  and  throughout  the  sermon 
seemed  to  Malcolm  not  once  to  move 
her  eyes  from  the  carved  crusader.  When 
all  was  over,  she  still  sat  motionless — sat 
until  the  last  old  woman  had  hobbled 
out.  Then  she  rose,  walked  slowly  from 
the  gloom  of  the  church,  flashed  into  the 
glow  of  the  churchyard,  gleamed  across 
it  to  a  private  door  in  the  wall,  which  a 
servant  held  for  her,  and  vanished.  If, 
a  moment  after,  the  notes  of  a  merry 
song  invaded  the  ears  of  those  who  yet 
lingered,  who  could  dare  suspect  that 
proudly  sedate  damsel  of  thus  suddenly 
breaking  the  ice  of  her  public  behavior  ? 

For  a  mere  school-girl  she  had  cer- 
tainly done  the  lady's  part  well.  What 
she  wore  I  do  not  exactly  know ;  nor 
would  it  perhaps  be  well  to  describe  what 
might  seem  grotesque  to  such  prejudiced 
readers  as  have  no  judgment  beyond  the 
fashions  of  the  day.  But  I  will  not  let 
pass  the  opportunity  of  reminding  them 
how  sadly  old-fashioned  we  of  the  pres- 
ent hour  also  look  in  the  eyes  of  those 
equally  infallible  judges  who  have  been 
in  dread  procession  toward  us  ever  since 
we  began  to  be — our  posterity— judges 
who  perhaps  will  doubt  with  a  smile 
whether  we  even  knew  what  love  was, 
or  ever  had  a  dream  of  the  grandeur 
they  are  on  the  point  of  grasping.  But 
at  least  bethink  yourselves,  dear  poster- 
ity !  we  have  not  ceased  because  you 
have  begun. 

Out  of  the  church  the  blind  Duncan 
strode  with  long,  confident  strides.  He 
had  no  staff  to  aid  him,  for  he  never  car- 


46 


MALCOLM. 


ried  one  when  in  his  best  clothes ;  but 
he  leaned  proudly  on  Malcolm's  arm,  if 
one  who  walked  so  erect  could  be  said 
to  lean.  He  had  adorned  his  bonnet 
the  autumn  before  with'  a  sprig  of  the 
large  purple  heather,  but  every  bell  had 
fallen  from  it,  leaving  only  the  naked 
spray,  pitiful  analogue  of  the  whole 
withered  exterior  of  which  it  formed 
part.  His  sporran,  however,  hid  the 
stained  front  of  his  kilt,  and  his  Sunday 
coat  had  been  new  within  ten  years — 
the  gift  of  certain  ladies  of  Portlossie, 
some  of  whom,  to  whose  lowland  eyes 
the  kilt  was  obnoxious,  would  have  add- 
ed a  pair  of  trowsers,  had  not  Miss  Horn 
stoutly  opposed  them,  confident  that 
Duncan  would  regard  the  present  as  an 
insult.  And  she  was  right;  for  rather 
than  wear  anything  instead  of  the  phili- 
beg,  Duncan  would  have  plaited  him- 
self one  with  his  own  blind  fingers  out 
of  an  old  sack.  Indeed,  although  the 
trews  were  never  at  any  time  unknown 
in  the  Highlands,  Duncan  had  always 
regarded  them  as  effeminate,  and  espe- 
cially in  his  lowland  exile  would  have 
looked  upon  the  wearing  of  them  as  a 
disgrace  to  his  highland  birth. 

"  Tat  wass  a  ferry  coot  sairmon  to-day, 
Malcolm,"  he  said,  as  they  stepped  from 
the  churchyard  upon  the  road. 

Malcolm,  knowing  well  whither  conver- 
sation on  the  subject  would  lead,  made 
no  reply.  His  grandfather,  finding  him 
silent,  iterated  his  remark,  with  the  ad- 
dition— 

"Put  how  could  it  pe  a  paad  one, 
you'll  pe  thinking,  my  poy,  when  he'd 
pe  hafing  such  a  text  to  keep  him 
straight?" 

Malcolm  continued  silent,  for  a  good 
many  people  were  within  hearing,  whom 
he  did  not  wish  to  see  amused  with  the 
remarks  certain  to  follow  any  he  could 
make.  But  Mr.  Graham,  who  happened 
to  be  walking  near  the  old  man  on  the 
other  side,  out  of  pure  politeness  made  a 
partial  response. 

"Yes,  Mr.  MacPhail,"  he  said,  "it  was 
a  grand  text." 

"  Yes,  and  it  wass  '11  pe  a  cran'  sair- 
mon," persisted  Duncan.  "'Fenchence 
is  mine — I  will  repay.'     Ta  Lord  loves 


fenchence.  It's  a  fine  thing,  fenchence. 
To  make  ta  wicked  know  tat  tey  'II  pe 
peing  put  men  !  Yes  ;  ta  Lord  will  slay 
ta  wicked.  Ta  Lord  will  gif  ta  honest 
man  fenchence  upon  his  enemies.  It 
wass  a  cran'  sairmon  !" 

"  Don't  you  think  vengeance  a  very 
dreadful  thing,  Mr.  MacPhail  ?"  said  the 
schoolmaster. 

"Yes,  for  ta  von  tat  '11  pe  in  ta  wrong. 
— I  wish  ta  fenchence  was  mine!"  he 
added  with  a  loud  sigh. 

"  But  the  Lord  doesn't  think  any  of  us 
fit  to  be  trusted  with  it,  and  so  keeps  it 
to  himself,  you  see." 

"Yes;  and  tat  '11  pe  pecause  it  '11  pe 
too  coot  to  be  gifing  to  another.  And 
some  people  would  be  waik  of  heart, 
and  be  letting  teir  enemies  co." 

"I  suspect  it's  for  the  opposite  reason, 
Mr.  MacPhail : — we  would  go  much  too 
far,  making  no  allowances,  causing  the 
innocent  to  suffer  along  with  the  guilty, 
neither  giving  fair  play  nor  avoiding 
cruelty — and  indeed — " 

"No  fear  !"  interrupted  Duncan  eager- 
ly— "no  fear,  when  ta  wrong  wass  as 
larch  as  Morven !" 

In  the  sermon  there  had  not  been  one 
word  as  to  Saint  Paul's  design  in  quoting 
the  text.  It  had  been  but  a  theatrical  set- 
ting forth  of  the  vengeance  of  God  upon 
sin,  illustrated  with  several  common  tales 
of  the  discovery  of  murder  by  strange 
means — a  sermon  after  Duncan's  own 
heart ;  and  nothing  but  the  way  in  which 
he  now  snuffed  the  wind  with  head 
thrown  back  and  nostrils  dilated,  could 
have  given  an  adequate  idea  of  how 
much  he  enjoyed  the  recollection  of  it. 

Mr.  Graham  had  for  many  years  be- 
lieved that  he  must  have  some  personal 
wrongs  to  brood  over — wrongs,  prob- 
ably, to  which  were  to  be  attributed  his 
loneliness  and  exile ;  but  of  such  Dun- 
can had  never  spoken,  uttering  no  male- 
dictions except  against  the  real  or  imag- 
ined foes  of  his  family.* 

•What  added  to  the  likelihood  of  Mr.  Graham's 
conjecture  was  the  fact,  well  enough  known  to  him, 
though  to  few  lowlanders  besides,  that  revenge  is  not 
a  characteristic  of  the  Gael.  Whatever  instances  of 
it  may  have  appeared,  and  however  strikingly  they 
may  have  been  worked  up  in  fiction,  such  belong  to 
the  individual  and  not  to  the  race.     A  remarkable 


MALCOLM. 


47 


Tlie  master  placed  so  little  value  on 
any  possible  results  of  mere  argument, 
and  had  indeed  so  little  faith  in  any 
words  except  such  as  came  hot  from  the 
heart,  that  he  said  no  more,  but,  with  an 
invitation  to  Malcolm  to  visit  him  in  the 
evening,  wished  them  good-day,  and 
turned  in  at  his  own  door. 

The  two  went  slowly  on  toward  the 
sea-town.  The  road  was  speckled  with 
home-goers,  single  and  in  groups,  hold- 
ing a  quiet  Sunday  pace  to  their  dinners. 
Suddenly  Duncan  grasped  Malcolm's 
arm  with  the  energy  of  perturbation, 
almost  of  fright,  and  said  in  a  loud 
whisper : 

"Tere'll  pe  something  efil  not  far  from 
her,  Malcolm,  my  son !  Look  apout, 
look  apout,  and  take  care  how  you'll  pe 
leading  her." 

Malcolm  looked  about,  and  rephed, 
pressing  Duncan's  arm,  and  speaking  in 
a  low  voice,  far  less  audible  than  his 
whisper, 

"There's  naebody  near,  daddy — nae- 
body  but  the  ho\vdie-wife." 

"  What  howdie  -  wife  do  you  mean, 
Malcolm  ?" 

"  Hoot !  Mistress  Catanach,  ye  ken. 
Dinna  lat  her  hear  ye." 

"  I  had  a  feeshion,  Malcolm — one  mo- 
ment, and  no  more  ;  ta  darkness  closed 
arount  it :  I  saw  a  ped,  Malcolm,  and — " 

"Wheesht,  wheesht,  daddy!"  pleaded 
Malcolm  importunately.  "She  hears 
ilka  word  ye're  sayin'.  She's  awfu'  gleg, 
an'  she's  as  poozhonous  as  an  edder. 
Haud  yer  tongue,  daddy ;  for  guid-sake 
haud  yer  tongue." 

The  old  man  yielded,  grasping  Mal- 
colm's arm,  and  quickening   his   pace, 

proof  of  this  occurs  in  the  history  of  the  family  of 
Glenco  itself.  What  remained  of  it  after  the  mas- 
sacre in  i68g,  rose  in  1745,  and  joined  the  forces  of 
Prince  Charles  Edward.  Arriving  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  residence  of  Lord  Stair,  whose  grand- 
father had  been  one  of  the  chief  instigators  of  the 
massacre,  the  prince  took  special  precautions  lest  the 
people  of  Glenco  should  wreak  inherited  vengeance 
on  the  earl.  But  they  were  so  indignant  at  being 
supposed  capable  of  visiting  on  the  innocent  the  guilt 
of  their  ancestors,  that  it  was  with  much  difficulty 
they  were  prevented  from  forsaking  the  standard  of 
the  prince  and  returning  at  once  to  their  homes. 
Perhaps  a  yet  stronger  proof  is  the  fact,  fully  asserted 
by  one  Gaelic  scholar  at  least,  that  their  literature 
contains  nothing  to  foster  feelings  of  revenge. 


though  his  breath  came  hard,  as  through 
the  gathering  folds  of  asthma.  Mrs. 
Catanach  also  quickened  her  pace  and 
came  gliding  along  the  grass  by  the  side 
of  the  road,  noiseless  as  the  adder  to 
which  Malcolm  had  likened  her,  and 
going  much  faster  tharw  she  seemed. 
Her  great  round  body  looked  a  persist- 
ent type  of  her  calling,  and  her  arms 
seemed  to  rest  in  front  of  her  as  upon  a 
ledge.  In  one  hand  she  carried  a  small 
Bible,  round  which  was  folded  her  pock- 
et-handkerchief, and  in  the  other  a  bunch 
of  southern-wood  and  rosemary.  She 
wore  a  black  silk  gown,  a  white  shawl, 
and  a  great  straw  bonnet  with  yellow 
ribbons  in  huge  bows,  and  looked  the 
very  pattern  of  Sunday  respectability ; 
but  her  black  eyebrows  gloomed  ominous, 
and  an  evil  smile  shadowed  about  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  as  she  passed  with- 
out turning  her  head  or  taking  the  least 
notice  of  them.  Duncan  shuddered,  and 
breathed  yet  harder,  but  seemed  to  re- 
cover as  she  increased  the  distance  be- 
tween them.  They  walked  the  rest  of 
the  way  in  silence,  however ;  and  even 
after  they  reached  home,  Duncan  made 
no  allusion  to  his  late  discomposure. 

"What  was't  ye  thocht  ye  saw,  as  we 
cam  frae  the  kirk,  daddy  ?"  asked  Mal- 
colm when  they  were  seated  at  their 
dinner  of  broiled  mackerel  and  boiled 
potatoes. 

"  In  other  times  she'll  pe  hafing  such 
feeshions  often,  Malcolm,  my  son,"  he 
returned,  avoiding  an  answer.  "  Like 
other  pards  of  her  race  she  would  pe  see- 
ing—  in  the  speerit,  where  old  Tuncan 
can  see.  And  she'll  pe  telling  you,  Mal- 
colm— peware  of  tat  voman ;  for  ta  vo- 
man  was  thinking  pad  thoughts;  and 
tat  will  pe  what  make  her  shutter  and 
shake,  my  son,  as  she'll  be  coing  py." 


CHAPTER    XII. 
THE    CHURCHYARD. 

On  Sundays,  Malcolm  was  always 
more  or  less  annoyed  by  the  obtrusive 
presence  of  his  arms  and  legs,  accom- 
panied by  a  vague  feeling  that,  at  any 
moment,  and  no   warning  given,   thev 


48 


MALCOLM. 


might,  with  some  insane  and  irrepres- 
sible flourish,  break  the  Sabbath  on  their 
own  account,  and  degrade  him  in  the 
eyes  of  his  fellow-townsmen,  who  seem- 
ed all  silently  watching  how  he  bore  the 
restraints  of  the  holy  day.  It  must  be 
conceded,  however,  that  the  discomfort 
had  quite  as  much  to  do  with  his  Sun- 
day clothes  as  with  the  Sabbath-day, 
and  that  it  interfered  but  little  with  an 
altogether  peculiar  calm  which  appeared 
to  him  to  belong  in  its  own  right  to  the 
Sunday,  whether  its  light  flowed  in  the 
sunny  cataracts  of  June,  or  oozed  through 
the  spongy  clouds  of  November.  As  he 
walked  again  to  the  Alton,  or  Old  Town 
in  the  evening,  the  filmy  floats  of  white 
in  the  lofty  blue,  the  droop  of  the  long 
dark  grass  by  the  side  of  the  short  bright 
corn,  the  shadows  pointing  like  all 
lengthening  shadows  toward  the  quarter 
of  hope,  the  yellow  glory  filling  the  air 
and  paling  the  green  below,  the  unseen 
larks  hanging  aloft  —  like  air-pitcher- 
plants  that  overllowed  in  song  —  like 
electric  jars  emptying  themselves  of  the 
sweet  thunder  of  bliss  in  the  flashing  of 
wings  and  the  trembling  of  melodious 
throats ;  these  were  indeed  of  the  sum- 
mer, but  the  cup  of  rest  had  been  poured 
out  upon  them ;  the  Sabbath  brooded 
like  an  embodied  peace  over  the  earth, 
and  under  its  wings  they  grew  sevenfold 
peaceful — with  a  peace  that  might  be 
felt,  like  the  hand  of  a  mother  pressed 
upon  the  half-sleeping  child.  The  rust- 
ed iron  cross  on  the  eastern  gable  of  the 
old  church  stood  glowing  lustreless  in 
the  westering  sun ;  while  the  gilded 
vane,  whose  business  was  the  wind, 
creaked  radiantly  this  way  and  that,  in 
the  flaws  from  the  region  of  the  sunset : 
its  shadow  flickered  soft  on  the  new 
grave,  where  the  grass  of  the  wounded 
sod  was  drooping.  Again  seated  on  a 
neighbor  stone,  Malcolm  found  his 
friend. 

"See,"  said  the  schoolmaster  as  the 
fisherman  sat  down  beside  him,  "how 
the  shadow  from  one  grave  stretches 
like  an  arm  to  embrace  another !  In  this 
light  the  churchyard  seems  the  very 
birthplace  of  shadows  :  see  them  flowing 
out  of  the  tombs  as  from  fountains,  to 


overflow  the  world  I — Does  the  morning 
or  the  evening  light  suit  such  a  place 
best,  Malcolm  ?" 

The  pupil  thought  for  a  while. 

"The  evenin'  licht,  sir,"  he  answered 
at  length;  "for  ye  see  the  sun's  deein' 
like,  an'  deith's  like  a  fa'in'  asleep,  an' 
the  grave's  the  bed,  an'  the  sod's  the 
bed-claes,  an'  there's  a  lang  nicht  to  the 
fore." 

"Are  ye  sure  o'  that,  Malcolm  ?" 

"  It's  the  wye  folk  thinks  an'  says 
aboot  it,  sir." 

"Or  maybe  doesna  think,  an'  only 
says  ?" 

"  Maybe,  sir ;  I  dinna  ken." 

"Come  here,  Malcolm,"  said  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, and  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led 
him  toward  the  east  end  of  the  church, 
where  a  few  tombstones  were  crowded 
against  the  wall,  as  if  they  would  press 
close  to  a  place  they  might  not  enter. 

"Read  that,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
flat  stone,  where  every  hollow  letter  was 
shown  in  high  relief  by  the  growth  in  it 
of  a  lovely  moss.  The  rest  of  the  stone 
was  rich  in  gray  and  green  and  brown 
lichens,  but  only  in  the  letters  grew  the 
bright  moss :  the  inscription  stood  as  it 
were  in  the  hand  of  Nature  herself — 
''He  is  tiot  here  ;  he  is  risen." 

While  Malcolm  gazed,  trying  to  think 
what  his  master  would  have  him  think, 
the  latter  resumed: 

"  If  he  is  risen — if  the  sun  is  up,. Mal- 
colm— then  the  morning  and  not  the 
evening  is  the  season  for  the  place  of 
tombs ;  the  morning  when  the  shadows 
are  shortening  and  separating,  not  the 
evening  when  they  are  growing  all  into 
one.  I  used  to  love  the  churchyard 
best  in  the  evening,  when  the  past  was 
more  to  me  than  the  future ;  now  I  visit 
it  almost  every  bright  summer  morning, 
and  only  occasionally  at  night." 

"  But,  sir,  isna  deith  a  dreadfu'  thing  ?" 
said  Malcolm. 

"  That  depends  on  whether  a  man  re- 
gards it  as  his  fate,  or  as  the  will  of  a 
perfect  God.  Its  obscurity  is  its  dread  ; 
but  if  God  be  light,  then  death  itself  must 
be  full  of  splendor — a  splendor  probably 
too  keen  for  our  eyes  to  receive." 

"  But  there's  the  dcein'  itscl' :  isna  that 


MALCOLM. 


49 


fearsome  ?  It's  that  I  wad  be  fleyed 
at." 

"  I  don't  see  why  it  should  be.  It's 
the  want  of  a  God  that  makes  it  dread- 
ful, and  you  will  be  greatly  to  blame, 
Malcolm,  if  you  haven't  found  your  God 
by  the  time  you  have  to  die." 

They  were  startled  by  a  gruff  voice 
near  them.  The  speaker  was  hidden  by 
a  corner  of  the  church. 

"Ay,  she's  weel  happit  {covered^''  it 
said.  "But  a  grave  never  luiks  richt 
wantin'  a  stane,  an'  her  auld  cousin  wad 
hear  o'  nane  bein'  laid  ower  her.  I  said 
it  micht  be  set  up  at  her  heid,  whaur  she 
wad  never  fin'  the  weicht  o'  't ;  but  na, 
na !  nane  o'  't  for  her !  She's  ane  'at 
maun  tak  her  ain  gait,  say  the  ither 
thing  wha  likes." 

It  was  Wattie  Witherspail  who  spoke 
— a  thin  shaving  of  a  man,  with  a  deep, 
harsh,  indeed  startling  voice. 

"An'  what  ailed  her  at  a  stane?"  re- 
turned the  voice  of  Jonathan  Auldbuird, 
the  sexton.  " — Na  doobt  it  wad  be  the 
expense  ?" 

"  Amna  I  tellin'  ye  what  it  was  ?  Deil 
a  bit  o'  the  expense  cam  intil  the  calca- 
lation !  The  auld  maiden's  nane  sae 
close  as  fowk  'at  disna  ken  her  wad  mak 
her  oot.  /  ken  her  weel.  She  wadna 
hae  a  stane  laid  upon  her  as  gien  she 
wanted  to  baud  her  doon,  puir  thing ! 
She  said,  says  she,  '  The  yerd's  eneuch 
upo'  the  tap  o'  her,  wantin'  that !'  " 

"  It  micht  be  some  sair,  she  wad  be 
thinkin'  doobtless,  for  sic  a  walk  worn 
cratur  to  lift  whan  the  trump  was  blawn," 
said  the  sexton,  with  the  feeble  laugh  of 
one  who  doubts  the  reception  of  his  wit. 

"Weel,  1  div  whiles  think,"  responded 
Wattie, — but  it  was  impossible  from  his 
tone  to  tell  whether  or  not  he  spoke  in 
earnest, — "  'at  maybe  my  boxies  is  a 
wheen  ower  weel  made  for  the  use  they're 
pitten  till.  They  sudna  be  that  ill  to 
rive — gien  a'  be  true  'at  the  minister 
says.  Ye  see,  we  dinna  ken  whan  that 
day  may  come,  an'  there  may  na  be 
time  for  the  wat  an'  the  worm  to  ca 
(drive)  the  boords  apairt." 

"  Hoots,  man  !  it's  no  your  lang  nails 
nor  yet  yer  heidit  screws  '11  baud  doon 
the  redeemt,  gien  the  jeedgement  war 
4 


the  morn's  mornin',"  said  the  sexton; 
"an'  for  the  lave,  they  wad  be  glaid 
eneuch  to  bide  whaur  they  are ;  but 
they'll  a'  be  howkit  oot, — fear  na  ye 
that." 

"The  Lord  grant  a  blessed  uprisin'  to 
you  an'  me,  Jonathan,  at  that  day  !"  said 
Wattie,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  felt  him- 
self uttering  a  more  than  ordinarily  re- 
ligious sentiment ;  and  on  the  word  fol- 
lowed the  sound  of  their  retreating  foot- 
steps. 

"How  close  together  may  come  the 
solemn  and  the  grotesque  !  the  ludicrous 
and  the  majestic  !"  said  the  schoolmaster. 
"  Here,  to  us  lingering  in  awe  about  the 
doors  beyond  which  lie  the  gulfs  of  the 
unknown — to  our  very  side  come  the 
Wright  and  the  grave-digger  with  their 
talk  of  the  strength  of  coffins  and  the 
judgment  of  the  living  God  !" 

"I  hae  whiles  thoucht  mysel',  sir," 
said  Malcolm,  "it  was  gey  strange-like 
to  hae  a  wuman  o'  the  mak  o'  Mistress 
Catanach  sittin'  at  the  receipt  o'  bairns, 
like  the  gate-keeper  o'  the  ither  warl', 
wi'  the  hasp  o'  't  in  her  han' :  it  doesna 
promise  ower  weel  for  them  'at  she  lats 
in.  An'  noo  ye  hae  pitten't  intil  my 
heid  that  there's  Wattie  Witherspail  an' 
Jonathan  Auldbuird  for  the  porters  to 
open  an'  lat  a'  that's  left  o'  *s  oot  again ! 
Think  o'  sic-like  haein'  sic  a  han'  in  sic 
solemn  matters !" 

"Indeed  some  of  us  have  strange  por- 
ters," said  Mr.  Graham,  with  a  smile, 
"both  to  open  to  us  and  to  close  behind 
us  ;  yet  even  in  them  lies  the  human  na- 
ture, which,  itself  the  embodiment  of  the 
unknown,  wanders  out  through  the  gates 
of  mystery,  to  wander  back,  it  may  be, 
in  a  manner  not  altogether  unlike  that 
by  which  it  came." 

In  contemplative  moods,  the  school- 
master spoke  in  a  calm  and  loftily  sus- 
tained style  of  book-English — quite  an- 
other language  from  that  he  used  when 
he  sought  to  rouse  the  consciences  of 
his  pupils,  and  strangely  contrasted  with 
that  in  which  Malcolm  kept  up  his  side 
of  the  dialogue. 

"I  houp,  sir,"  said  the  latter,  "it  '11 
be  nae  sort  o'  a  celestial  Mistress  Cata- 
nach 'at  '11  be  waiting  for  me  o'  the  ither 


5° 


MALCOLM. 


side  ;  nor  yet  for  my  puir  daddy,  wha  cud 
ill  bide  bein'  wamled  aboot  upoVz^rknee." 

Mr.  Graham  laughed  outright. 

"  If  there  be  one  to  act  the  nurse,"  he 
answered,  "  I  presume  there  will  be  one 
to  take  the  mother's  part  too." 

"But  speakin'  o'  the  grave,  sir,"  pur- 
sued Malcolm,  "  I  wiss  ye  cud  drop  a 
word  'at  micht  be  o'  some  comfort  to  my 
daddy.  It's  plain  to  me,  frae  words  he 
lats  fa'  noo  an'  than,  that,  instead  o' 
lea'in'  the  warl'  ahint  him  whan  he  dees, 
he  thinks  to  lie  smorin'  an'  smocherin' 
i'  the  mools,  clammy  an'  weet,  but  a' 
there,  an'  trimlin'  at  the  thocht  o*  the 
suddent  awfu'  roor  an'  dirl  o'  the  brazen 
trumpet  o'  the  archangel.  I  wiss  ye  wad 
luik  in  an'  say  something  till  him  some 
nicht.  It's  nae  guid  mentionin'  't  to  the 
minister;  he  wad  only  gie  a  lauch  an' 
gang  awa'.  An'  gien  ye  cud  jist  slide 
in  a  word  aboot  forgiein'  his  enemies, 
sir !  I  made  licht  o'  the  maitter  to  Mis- 
tress Courthope,  'cause  she  only  maks 
him  waur.  She  does  weel  wi'  what  the 
minister  pits  intill  her,  but  she  has  little 
o'  her  ain  to  mix't  up  wi',  an'  sae  has 
sma'  weicht  wi'  the  likes  o'  my  gran'- 
father.  Only  ye  winna  lat  him  think  ye 
called  on  purpose." 

They  walked  about  the  churchyard 
until  the  sun  went  down  in  what  Mr. 
Graham  called  the  grave  of  his  endless 
resurrection — the  clouds  on  the  one  side 
bearing  all  the  pomp  of  his  funeral,  the 
clouds  on  the  other  all  the  glory  of  his 
uprising ;  and  when  now  the  twilight 
trembled  filmy  on  the  borders  of  the 
dark,  the  master  once  more  seated  him- 
self beside  the  new  grave,  and  motion- 
ed to  Malcolm  to  take  his  place  beside 
him  :  there  they  talked  and  dreamed  to- 
gether of  the  life  to  come,  with  many 
wanderings  and  returns;  and  little  as 
the  boy  knew  of  the  ocean-depths  of 
sorrowful  experience  in  the  bosom  of  his 
companion  whence  floated  up  the  break- 
ing bubbles  of  rainbow-hued  thought, 
his  words  fell  upon  his  heart — not  to  be 
provender  for  the  birds  of  flitting  fancy 
and  airy  speculation,  but  the  seed — it 
might  be  decades  ere  it  ripened — of  a 
coming  harvest  of  hope.  At  length  the 
master  rose  and  said — 


"  Malcolm,  I'm  going  in  :  I  should  like 
you  to  stay  here  half  an  hour  alone,  and 
then  go  straight  home  to  bed." 

For  the  master  believed  in  solitude  and 
silence.  Say  rather,  he  believed  in  God. 
What  the  youth  might  think,  feel,  or 
judge,  he  could  not  tell ;  but  he  believed 
that  when  the  human  is  still,  the  Divine 
speaks  to  it,  because  it  is  its  own. 

Malcolm  consented  willingly.  The 
darkness  had  deepened,  the  graves  all 
but  vanished ;  an  old  setting  moon  ap- 
peared, boat-like,  over  a  great  cloudy 
chasm,  into  which  it  slowly  sank;  blocks 
of  cloud,  with  stars  between,  possessed 
the  sky ;  all  nature  seemed  thinking 
about  death ;  a  listless  wind  began  to 
blow,  and  Malcolm  began  to  feel  as  if 
he  were  awake  too  long,  and  ought  to  be 
asleep — as  if  he  were  out  in  a  dream — a 
dead  man  that  had  risen  too  soon  or 
lingered  too  late — so  lonely,  so  forsaken ! 
The  wind,  soft  as  it  was,  seemed  to  blow 
through  his  very  soul.  Yet  something 
held  him,  and  his  half  hour  was  long 
over  when  he  left  the  churchyard. 

As  he  walked  home,  the  words  of  a 
German  poem,  a  version  of  which  Mr. 
Graham  had  often  repeated  to  him,  and 
once  more  that  same  night,  kept  ringing 
in  his  heart: 

Uplifted  is  the  stone, 

And  all  mankind  arisen  ! 
We  men  remain  thine  owo. 

And  vanished  is  our  prison  I 
What  bitterest  grief  can  stay 

Before  thy  golden  cup, 
When  earth  and  life  give  way. 

And  with  our  Lord  we  sup? 

To  the  marriage  Death  doth  call. 

The  maidens  are  not  slack  ; 
The  lamps  are  burning  all — 

Of  oil  there  is  no  lack. 
Afar  I  hear  the  walking 

Of  thy  great  marriage-throng  I 
And  hark  !  the  stars  are  talking 

With  human  tone  and  tongue  I 

Courage  !  for  life  is  hasting 

To  endless  life  away  ; 
The  inner  fire,  unwasting. 

Transfigures  our  dull  clay  I 
See  the  stars  melting,  sinking. 

In  life-wine,  golden-bright  1 
We,  of  the  splendor  drinking. 

Shall  grow  to  stars  of  light. 

Lost,  lost  are  all  our  losses ; 

Love  set  for  ever  free  ; 
The  full  life  heaves  and  tosses 

Like  an  eternal  sea  ! 


MALCOLM. 


51 


One  endless  living  story  ! 

One  poem  spread  abroad  ! 
And  the  sun  of  all  our  glory 

Is  the  countenance  of  God. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 
THE    MARQUIS    OF    LOSSIE. 

The  next  morning  rose  as  lovely  as  if 
the  mantle  of  the  departing  Resurrec- 
tion-day had  fallen  upon  it.  Malcolm 
rose  with  it,  hastened  to  his  boat,  and 
pulled  out  into  the  bay  for  an  hour  or 
two's  fishing.  Nearly  opposite  the  great 
conglomerate  rock  at  the  western  end 
of  the  dune,  called  the  Bored  Craig 
{^Perforated  Crag)  because  of  a  large 
hole  that  went  right  through  it,  he  be- 
gan to  draw  in  his  line.  Glancing  shore- 
ward as  he  leaned  over  the  gunwale,  he 
spied  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  near  the 
opening,  a  figure  in  white,  seated,  with 
bowed  head.  It  was  of  course  the  mys- 
terious lady,  whom  he  had  twice  before 
seen  thereabout  at  this  unlikely  if  not 
untimely  hour ;  but  with  yesterday  fresh 
in  his  mind,  how  could  he  fail  to  see  in 
her  an  angel  of  the  resurrection  waiting 
at  the  sepulchre  to  tell  the  glad  news 
that  the  Lord  was  risen  ? 

Many  were  the  glances  he  cast  shore- 
ward as  he  rebaited  his  line,  and,  having 
thrown  it  again  into  the  water,  sat  wait- 
ing until  it  should  be  time  to  fire  the 
swivel.  Still  the  lady  sat  on,  in  her 
whiteness  a  creature  of  the  dawn,  with- 
out even  lifting  her  head.  At  length, 
having  added  a  few  more  fishes  to  the 
little  heap  in  the  bottom  of  his  boat,  and 
finding  his  watch  bear  witness  that  the 
hour  was  at  hand,  he  seated  himself  on 
his  thwart,  and  rowed  lustily  to  the  shore, 
his  bosom  filled  with  the  hope  of  yet  an- 
other sight  of  the  lovely  face,  and  another 
hearing  of  the  sweet  English  voice  and 
speech.  But  the  very  first  time  he  turn- 
ed his  head  to  look,  he  saw  but  the  slo- 
ping foot  of  the  rock  sink  bare  into  the 
shore.  No  white-robed  angel  sat  at  the 
gate  of  the  resurrection ;  no  moving 
thing  was  visible  on  the  far-vacant  sands. 
When  he  reached  the  top  of  the  dune, 
there  was  no  living  creature  beyond  but 
a  few  sheep  feeding  on  the  thin  grass. 


He  fired  the  gun,  rowed  back  to  the  Sea- 
ton,  ate  his  breakfast,  and  set  out  to  car- 
ry the  best  of  his  fish  to  the  House. 

The  moment  he  turned  the  corner  of 
her  street,  he  saw  Mrs.  Catanach  stand- 
ing on  her  threshold  with  her  arms 
akimbo :  although  she  was  always  tid}', 
and  her  house  spotlessly  trim,  she  yet 
seemed  for  ever  about  the  door,  on  the 
outlook  at  least,  if  not  on  the  watch. 

"What  hae  ye  in  yer  bit  basket  the 
day,  Ma'colm  ?"  she  said,  with  a  peculiar 
smile,  which  was  not  sweet  enough  to 
restore  vanished  confidence. 

"Naething  guid  for  dogs,"  answered 
Malcolm,  and  was  walking  past. 

But  she  made  a  step  forward  and,  with 
a  laugh  meant  to  indicate  friendly  amuse- 
ment, said, 

"  Lat's  see  what's  intill't  ony  gait  [aiiy- 
hoiv).  The  doggie's  awa'  on*  's  traivels 
the  day." 

"'Deed,  Mistress  Catanach,"  persisted 
Malcolm,  "  I  canna  say  I  like  to  hae  my 
ain  fish  flung  i'  my  face,  nor  yet  to  see 
ill-faured  tykes  rin  awa'  wi'  't  afore  my 
verra  een." 

After  the  warning  given  him  by  Miss 
Horn,  and  the  strange  influence  her  pres- 
ence had  had  on  his  grandfather,  Mal- 
colm preferred  keeping  up  a  negative 
quaiTcl  with  the  woman. 

"Dinna  ca'  ill  names,"  she  returned: 
"  my  dog  wad  tak  it  waur  to  be  ca'd  an 
ill-faured  tyke,  nor  to  hae  fish  flung  in 
his  face.  Lat's  see  what's  i'  yer  basket, 
I  say." 

As  she  spoke,  she  laid  her  hand  on 
the  basket,  but  Malcolm  drew  back,  and 
turned  away  toward  the  gate. 

"  Lord  safe  us  !"  she  cried,  with  a  yell- 
ing laugh;  "ye're  no  feared  at  an  auld 
wife  like  me  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken ;  maybe  ay  an'  maybe 
no — I  wadna  say.  But  I  dinna  want  to 
hae  onything  to  du  wi'  ye,  mem." 

"Ma'colm  MacPhail,""'  said  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach, lowering  her  voice  to  a  hoarse 
whisper,  while  every  trace  of  laughter 
vanished  from  her  countenance,  "ye  hae 
had  mair  to  du  wi'  me  nor  ye  ken,  an' 
aiblins  ye'U  hae  mair  yet  nor  ye  can  weel 
help.     Sae  caw  canny,  my  man." 

"Ye  may  hae  the  layin'  o'  me  oot," 


52 


MALCOLM. 


said  Malcolm,  "but  it  sanna  be  wi'  my 
wull ;  an'  glen  I  hae  ony  life  left  i'  me,  I 
s'  gie  ye  a  fleg  { fright):" 

"Ye  may  get  a  waur  yersel'  :  I  hae 
frichtit  the  deid  afore  noo.  Sae  gang 
yer  wa's  to  Mistress  Coorthoup,  wi'  a 
flech  [flea)  i'  yer  lug  [ear).  I  wuss  ye 
luck — sic  luck  as  I  wad  wuss  ye  !" 

Her  last  words  sounded  so  like  a  curse, 
that  to  overcome  a  cauld  creep,  Malcolm 
had  to  force  a  laugh. 

The  cook  at  the  House  bought  all  his 
fish,  for  they  had  had  none  for  the  last 
few  days,  because  of  the  storm  ;  and  he 
was  turning  to  go  home  by  the  river-side, 
when  he  heard  a  tap  on  a  window,  and 
saw  Mrs.  Courthope  beckoning  him  to 
another  door. 

"His  lordship  desired  me  to  send  you 
to  him,  Malcolm,  the  next  time  you  call- 
ed," she  said. 

"Weel,  mem,  here  I  am,"  answered 
the  youth. 

"  You'll  find  him  in  the  flower-garden," 
she  said.  "  He's  up  early  to-day,  for  a 
wonder." 

He  left  his  basket  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  that  led  down  the  rock  to  the  level 
of  the  burn,  and  walked  up  the  valley 
of  the  stream. 

The  garden  was  a  curious  old-fashion- 
ed place,  with  high  hedges,  and  close 
alleys  of  trees,  where  two  might  have 
wandered  long  without  meeting,  and  it 
was  some  time  before  he  found  any  hint 
of  the  presence  of  the  marquis.  At 
length,  however,  he  heard  voices,  and 
following  the  sound,  walked  along  one 
of  the  alleys  till  he  came  to  a  little  ar- 
bor, where  he  discovered  the  marquis 
seated,  and,  to  his  surprise,  the  white- 
robed  lady  of  the  sands  beside  him.  A 
great  deer-hound  at  his  master's  feet  was 
bristling  his  mane,  and  baring  his  eye- 
teeth  with  a  growl,  but  the  girl  had  a 
hold  of  his  collar. 

"Who  are  you?''  asked  the  marquis 
rather  gruffly,  as  if  he  had  never  seen 
him  before. 

"  I  beg  yer  lordship's  pardon,"  said 
Malcolm,  "but  they  telled  me  yer  lord- 
ship wantit  to  see  me,  and  sent  me  to 
the  flooer-gairdcn.  Will  1  gang,  or  will 
I  bide?" 


The  marquis  looked  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, frowningly,  and  made  no  reply. 
But  the  frown  gradually  relaxed  before 
Malcolm's  modest  but  unflinching  gaze, 
and  the  shadow  of  a  smile  slowly  usurp- 
ed its  place.  He  still  kept  silent,  how- 
ever. 

"Am  I  to  gang  or  bide,  my  lord  ?"  re- 
peated Malcolm. 

"Can't  you  wait  for  an  answer?" 

"As  lang's  yer  lordship  likes. — Will  I 
gang  an'  walk  aboot,  mem  —  my  lady 
— till  his  lordship's  made  up  his  min'  ? 
Wad  that  please  him,  duv  ye  think  ?"  he 
said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  seeks  ad- 
vice. 

But  the  girl  only  smiled,  and  the  mar- 
quis said,  "Go  to  the  devil." 

"  I  maun  luik  to  yer  lordship  for  the 
necessar'  directions,"  rejoined  Malcolm. 

"  Your  tongue's  long  enough  to  inquire 
as  you  go,"  said  the  marquis. 

A  reply  in  the  same  strain  rushed  to 
Malcolm's  lips,  but  he  checked  himself 
in  time,  and  stood  silent,  with  his  bonnet 
in  his  hand,  fronting  the  two.  The  mar- 
quis sat  gazing  as  if  he  had  nothing  to 
say  to  him,  but  after  a  few  moments  the 
lady  spoke — not  to  Malcolm,  however. 

"  Is  there  any  danger  in  boating  here, 
papa?"  she  said. 

"  Not  more,  I  dare  say,  than  there  ought 
to  be,"  replied  the  marquis  listlessly. 
"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  I  should  so  like  a  row !  I 
want  to  see  how  the  shore  looks  to  the 
mermaids." 

"Well,  I  will  take  you  some  day,  if 
we  can  find  a  proper  boat." 

"Is  yours  a  proper  boat?"  she  asked, 
turning  to  Malcolm  with  a  sparkle  of  fun 
in  her  eyes. 

"  That  depen's  on  my  lord's  definition 
o'  proper." 

"Definition  !"  repeated  the  marquis. 

"  Is  't  ower  lang  a  word,  my  lord  ?" 
asked  Malcolm. 

The  marquis  only  smiled. 

"  I  ken  what  ye  mean.  It's  a  strange 
word  in  a  fisher-lad's  mou',  ye  think. 
But  what  for  should  na  a  fisher-lad  hae 
a  smatterin'  o'  loagic,  my  lord  ?  For 
Greek  or  Laitin  there's  but  sma'  oppor- 
tunity o'  exerceese  in  oor  pairts ;  but  for 


MALCOLM. 


53 


loagic,  a  fisher-body  may  aye  hand  his 
han'  in  i'  that.  He  can  aye  be  tryin'  't 
upo'  's  wife,  or  's  guid-mither,  or  iipo'  's 
boat,  or  upo'  the  fish  whan  they  winna 
talc.  Loagic  wad  save  a  heap  o'  cursin' 
an'  ill  words — amo'  the  fisher-fowk,  I 
mean,  my  lord." 

"Have  you  been  to  college  ?" 

"  Na,  my  lord — fhe  mair's  the  pity  ! 
But  I've  been  to  the  school  sin'  ever  I 
can  niin'." 

"  Do  they  teach  logic  there  ?" 

"A  kin'  o'  't.  Mr.  Graham  sets  us  to 
try  oor  han'  whiles — ^jist  to  mak  's  a  bit 
gleg  [quick  and  keen),  ye  ken." 

"You  don't  mean  you  go  to  school 
still  ?" 

"  I  dinna  gang  reg'lar  ;  but  I  gang  as 
aften  as  Mr.  Graham  wants  me  to  help 
him,  an'  I  aye  gether  something." 

"So  it's  schoolmaster  you  are  as  well 
as  fisherman  ?  Two  strings  to  your  bow ! 
— Who  pays  you  for  teaching  ?" 

"  Ow !  naebody.  Wha  wad  pay  me 
for  that?" 

"Why,  the  schoolmaster." 

"  Na,  but  that  wad  be  an  affront,  my 
lord !" 

"  How  can  you  afford  the  time  for 
nothing  ?" 

"The  time  comes  to  little,  compairt 
wi'  what  Mr.  Graham  gies  me  i'  the  lang 
forenichts — i'  the  winter  time,  ye  ken, 
my  lord,  whan  the  sea's  whiles  ower 
contumahcious  to  be  meddlet  muckle 
wi'." 

"  But  you  have  to  support  your  grand- 
father." 

"My  gran'father  wad  be  ill  pleased  to 
hear  ye  say  't,  my  lord.  He's  terrible 
independent ;  an'  what  wi'  his  pipes,  an' 
his  lamps,  an'  his  shop,  he  could  keep  's 
baith.  It's  no  muckle  the  likes  o'  us 
wants.  He  winna  let  me  gang  far  to  the 
fishin',  so  that  I  hae  the  mair  time  to 
read  an'  gang  to  Mr.  Graham." 

As  the  youth  spoke,  the  marquis  eyed 
him  with  apparently  growing  interest. 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  whether 
your  boat  is  a  proper  one,"  said  the  lady. 

"Proper  eneuch,  mem,  for  what's  re- 
quired o'  her.     She  taks  guid  fish." 

"  But  is  it  a  proper  boat  for  me  to  have 
a  row  in  ?" 


"  No  wi'  that  goon  on,  mem,  as  I  telled 
ye  afore." 

"The  water  won't  get  in,  will  it  ?" 

"No  more  than's  easy  gotten  cot 
again." 

"  Do  you  ever  put  up  a  sail  ?" 

"Whiles — a  wee  bit  o'  a  lug-sail." 

"  Nonsense,  Flory  !"  said  the  marquis. 
"  I'll  see  about  it.'  Then  turning  to 
Malcolm — 

"You  may  go,"  he  said.  "When  I 
want  you  I  will  send  for  you." 

Malcolm  thought  with  himself  that  he 
had  sent  for  him  this  time  before  he 
wanted  him  ;  but  he  made  his  bow,  and 
departed— not  without  disappointment, 
for  he  had  expected  the  marquis  to  say 
something  about  his  grandfather  going 
to  the  House  with  his  pipes,  a  request  he 
would  fain  have  carried  to  the  old  man 
to  gladden  his  heart  withal. 

Lord  Lossie  had  been  one  of  the  boon 
companions  of  the  prince  of  Wales — 
considerably  higher  in  type,  it  is  true, 
yet  low  enough  to  accept  usage  for  law, 
and  measure  his  obligation  by  the  cus- 
tom of  his  peers:  duty  merely  amounted 
to  what  was  expected  of  him,  and  honor, 
the  flitting  shadow  of  the  garment  of 
truth,  was  his  sole  divinity.  Still,  he  had 
a  heart,  and  it  would  speak — so  long  at 
least  as  the  object  affecting  it  was  pres- 
ent. But,  alas  !  it  had  no  memory.  Like 
the  unjust  judge,  he  might  redress  a 
wrong  that  cried  to  him,  but  out  of  sight 
and  hearing  it  had  for  him  no  exist- 
ence. To  a  man  he  would  not  have  told 
a  deliberate  lie — except,  indeed,  a  wo- 
man was  in  the  case ;  but  to  women  he 
had  lied  enough  to  sink  the  whole  ship 
of  fools.  Nevertheless,  had  the  accusing 
angel  himself  called  him  a  liar,  he  would 
have  instantly  offered  him  his  choice  of 
weapons. 

There  was  in  him  by  nature,  however, 
a  certain  generosity  which  all  the  vice  he 
had  shared  in  had  not  quenched.  Over- 
bearing, he  was  not  yet  too  overbearing 
to  appreciate  a  manly  carriage,  and  had 
been  pleased  with  what  some  would  have 
considered  the  boorishness  of  Malcolm's 
behavior — such  not  perceiving  that  it 
had  the  same  source  as  the  true  aristo- 
cratic bearing  —  namely,  a  certain  un- 


54 


MALCOLM. 


selfish  confidence  which  is  the  mother 
of  dignity. 

He  had  of  course  been  a  spendthrift — 
and  so  much  the  better,  being  otherwise 
what  he  was ;  for  a  cautious  and  frugal 
voluptuary  is  about  the  lowest  style  of 
man.  Hence  he  had  never  been  out  of 
difficulties,  and  when,  a  year  or  so  agone, 
he  succeeded  to  his  brother's  marquisate, 
he  was,  notwithstanding  his  enlarged  in- 
come, far  too  much  involved  to  hope  any 
immediate  rescue  from  them.  His  new 
property,  however,  would  afford  him  a 
refuge  from  troublesome  creditors ;  there 
he  might  also  avoid  expenditure  for  a 
season,  and  perhaps  rally  the  forces  of  a 
dissolute  life ;  the  place  was  not  new  to 
him,  having,  some  twenty  years  before, 
spent  nearly  twelve  months  there,  of 
which  time  the  recollections  were  not  al- 
together unpleasant :  weighing  all  these 
things  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  and 
here  he  was  at  Lossie  House. 

The  marquis  was  about  fifty  years  of 
age,  more  worn  than  his  years  would  ac- 
count for,  yet  younger  than  his  years  in 
expression,  for  his  conscience  had  never 
bitten  him  very  deep.  He  was  middle- 
sized,  broad-shouldered,  but  rather  thin, 
with  fine  features  of  the  aquiline  Greek 
type,  light-blue  hazy  eyes,  and  fair  hair, 
slightly  curling  and  streaked  with  gray. 
His  manners  were  those  of  one  polite  for 
his  own  sake.  To  his  remote  inferiors 
he  was  kind  —  would  even  encourage 
them  to  liberties,  but  might  in  turn  take 
greater  with  them  than  they  might  find 
agreeable.  He  was  fond  of  animals — 
would  sit  for  an  hour  stroking  the  head 
of  Demon,  his  great  Irish  deerhound ; 
but  at  other  times  would  tease  him  to  a 
wrath  which  touched  the  verge  of  dan- 
gerous. He  was  fond  of  practical  jokes, 
and  would  not  hesitate  to  indulge  him- 
self even  in  such  as  were  incompatible 
with  any  genuine  refinement :  the  sort 
liad  been  in  vogue  in  his  merrier  days, 
and  Lord  Lossie  had  ever  been  one  of 
the  most  fertile  in  inventing  and  loudest 
in  enjoying  them.  For  the  rest,  if  he 
was  easily  enraged,  he  was  readily  ap- 
peased ;  could  drink  a  great  deal,  but 
was  no  drunkard  ;  and  held  as  his  creed 
that  a  God  had  proliably  made  the  world 


and  set  it  going,  but  that  he  did  not  care 
a  brass  farthing,  as  he  phrased  it,  how  it 
went  on,  or  what'  such  an  insignificant 
being  as  a  man  did  or  left  undone  in  it. 
Perhaps  he  might  amuse  himself  with  it, 
he  said,  but  he  doubted  it.  As  to  men, 
he  believed  every  man  loved  himself 
supremely,  and  therefore  was  in  natural 
warfare  with  every  other  man.  Con- 
cerning women  he  professed  himself  un- 
able to  give  a  definite  utterance  of  any 
sort — and  yet,  he  would  add,  he  had  had 
opportunities. 

The  mother  of  Florimel  had  died 
when  she  was  a  mere  child,  and  from 
that  time  she  had  been  at  school  until 
her  father  brought  her  away  to  share  his 
fresh  honors.  She  knew  little,  that  little 
was  not  correct,  and  had  it  been,  would 
have  yet  been  of  small  value.  At  school 
she  had  been  under  many  laws,  and  had 
felt  their  slavery :  she  was  now  in  the 
third  heaven  of  delight  with  her  liberty. 
But  the  worst  of  foolish  laws  is,  that 
when  the  insurgent  spirit  casts  them  off, 
it  is  but  too  ready  to  cast  away  with  them 
the  genial  self-restraint  which  these  fret- 
ting trammels  have  smothered  beneath 
them. 

Her  father  regarded  her  as  a  child,  of 
whom  it  was  enough  to  require  that  she 
should  keep  out  of  mischief.  He  said 
to  himself  now  and  then  that  he  must 
find  a  governess  for  her ;  but  as  yet  he 
had  not  begun  to  look  for  one.  Mean- 
time he  neither  exercised  the  needful 
authority  over  her,  nor  treated  her  as  a 
companion.  His  was  a  shallow  nature, 
never  very  pleasantly  conscious  of  itself 
except  in  the  whirl  of  excitement  and 
the  glitter  of  crossing  lights  :  with  a  love- 
ly daughter  by  his  side,  he  neither  sought 
to  search  into  her  being,  nor  to  aid  'ts 
unfolding,  but  sat  brooding  over  \asX 
pleasures,  or  fancying  others  yet  in  store 
for  him — lost  in  the  dull  flow  of  life 
along  the  lazy  reach  to  whose  mire  its 
once  tumultuous  torrent  had  now  de- 
scended. But,  indeed,  what  could  such 
a  man  have  done  for  the  education  of  a 
young  girl  ?  How  many  of  the  qualities 
he  understood  and  enjoyed  in  women 
could  he  desire  to  see  developed  in  his 
daughter .'     There  was  yet  enough  of  the 


MALCOLM. 


55 


father  in  him  to  expect  those  qualities  in 
her  to  which  in  other  women  he  had 
been  an  insidious  foe ;  but  had  he  not 
done  what  in  him  lay  to  destroy  his  right 
of  claiming  such  from  her  ? 

So  Lady  Florimel  was  running  wild, 
and  enjoying  it.  As  long  as  she  made 
her  appearance  at  meals,  and  looked 
happy,  her  father  would  give  himself  no 
trouble  about  her.  How  he  himself  man- 
aged to  live  in  those  first  days  without 
company — what  he  thought  about  or 
speculated  upon,  it  were  hard  to  say. 
All  he  could  be  said  to  do  was  to  ride 
here  and  there  over  the  estate  with  his 
steward,  Mr.  Crathie,  knowing  little  and 
caring  less  about  farming,  or  crops,  or 
cattle.  He  had  by  this  time,  however, 
invited  a  few  friends  to  visit  him,  and 
expected  their  arrival  before  long. 

"  How  do  you  like  this  dull  life,  Floiy  ?" 
he  said,  as  they  walked  up  the  garden  to 
breakfast. 

"Dull,  papal"  she  returned.  "You 
never  were  at  a  girls'  school,  or  you 
wouldn't  call  this  dull.  It  is  the  merriest 
life  in  the  world.  To  go  where  you  like, 
and  have  miles  of  room  !  And  such 
room !  It's  the  loveliest  place  in  the 
world,  papa !" 

He  smiled  a  small,  satisfied  smile,  and 
stooping  stroked  his  Demon. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
MEG   PARTAN'S   lamp. 

Malcolm  went  down  the  river-side, 
not  over  pleased  with  the  marquis ;  for, 
although  unconscious  of  it  as  such,  he 
had  a  strong  feeling  of  personal  dignity. 

As  he  threaded  the  tortuous  ways  of 
the  Seaton  toward  his  own  door,  he  met 
sounds  of  mingled  abuse  and  apology. 
Such  were  not  infrequent  in  that  c^uarter, 
for  one  of  the  women  who  lived  there 
was  a  termagant,  and  the  door  of  her 
cottage  was  generally  open.  She  was 
known  as  Meg  Partan.  Her  husband's 
real  name  was  of  as  little  consequence 
in  life  as  it  is  in  my  histoiy,  for  almost 
everybody  in  the  fishing  villages  of  that 
coast  was  and  is  known  by  his  to-name, 
or   nickname,   a   device   for  distinction 


rendered  absolutely  necessary  by  the 
paucity  of  surnames  occasioned  by  the 
persistent  intermarriage  of  the  fisher- 
folk.  Partan  is  the  Scotch  for  crab,  but 
the  immediate  recipient  of  the  name 
was  one  of  the  gentlest  creatures  in  the 
place,  and  hence  it  had  been  surmised 
by  some  that,  the  gray  mare  being  the 
better  horse,  the  man  was  thus  desig- 
nated from  the  crabbedness  of  his  wife  ; 
but  the  probability  is  he  brought  the  ag- 
nomen with  him  from  school,  where 
many  such  apparently  misfitting  names 
are  unaccountably  generated. 

In  the  present  case,  however,  the  apol- 
ogies were  not  issuing  as  usual  from  the 
mouth  of  Davy  Partan,  but  from  that  of 
the  bhnd  piper.  Malcolm  stood  for  a 
moment  at  the  door  to  understand  the 
matter  of  contention,  and  prepare  him- 
self to  interfere  judiciously. 

"Gien  ye  suppose,  piper,  'at  ye're  pey- 
ed  to  drive  fowk  oot  o'  their  beds  at  sic 
hoors  as  yon,  it's  time  the  toon-cooncil 
was  informed  o'  yer  mistak,"  said  Meg 
Partan,  with  emphasis  on  the  last  syllable. 

"  Ta  coot  peoples  up  in  ta  town  are  not 
half  so  hart  upon  her  as  you.  Mistress 
Partan,"  insinuated  poor  Duncan,  who, 
knowing  himself  in  fault,  was  humble ; 
"and  it's  tere  tat  she's  paid,"  he  added, 
with  a  bridling  motion,  "and  not  town 
here  pelow." 

"Dinna  ye  glorifee  yersel'  to  suppose 
there's  a  fisher,  lat  alane  a  fisher's  wife, 
in  a'  the  haill  Seaton  'at  wad  lippen 
[trust)  till  an  auld  haiveril  like  you  to  hae 
them  up  i'  the  morning' !  Haith !  I  was 
oot  o'  my  bed  hoors  or  I  hard  the  skirlin' 
o'  your  pipes.  Troth !  I  ken  weel  hoo 
muckle  ower  ear'  yer  was !  But  what 
fowk  taks  in  han',  fowk  sud  put  oot  o' 
han'  in  a  proper  mainner,  and  no  mis- 
guggle  't  a'thegither  like  yon.  An'  for 
what  they  say  i'  the  toon,  there's  Mis- 
tress Catanach — " 

"Mistress  Catanach  is  a  paad  'oman," 
said  Duncan. 

"  I  wad  advise  you,  piper,  to  haud  a 
quaiet  sough  aboot  her.  Shes  no  to  be 
meddlet  wi',  Mistress  Catanach,  I  can 
tell  ye.  Gien  ye  anger  her,  it'll  be  the 
waur  for  ye.  The  neist  time  ye  hae  a 
lyin'  in,  she'll  be  raxin'  [reaching)  ye  a 


56 


MALCOLM. 


hairless  pup,  or,  'deed,  maybe  a  stan'  o' 
bagpipes,  as  the  produck." 

"Her  nain  sel'  will  not  pe  requiring 
her  sairvices,  Mistress  Partan ;  she'll  pe 
leafing  tat  to  you,  if  you'll  excuse  me," 
said  Duncan. 

"'Deed,  ye're  richt  there!  An  auld 
speldin'  {dried  haddock)  like  you  !  Ha  ! 
ha!  ha!" 

Malcolm  judged  it  time  to  interfere, 
and  stepped  into  the  cottage.  Duncan 
was  seated  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
room,  with  an  apron  over  his  knees,  oc- 
cupied with  a  tin  lamp.  He  had  taken 
out  the  wick  and  laid  its  flat  tube  on  the 
hearth,  had  emptied  the  oil  into  a  saucer, 
and  was  now  rubbing  the  lamp  vigor- 
ously :  cleanliness  rather  than  brightness 
must  have  been  what  he  sought  to  pro- 
duce. 

Malcolm's  instinct  taught  him  to  side 
so  far  with  the  dame  concerning  Mrs. 
Catanach,  and  thereby  turn  the  torrent 
away  from  his  grandfather. 

"  'Deed  ye're  richt  there.  Mistress  Find- 
lay!"  he  said.  "She's  no  to  be  meddlet 
wi'.     She's  no  mowse  [safe).'" 

Malcolm  was  a  favorite  with  Meg,  as 
with  all  the  women  of  the  place ;  hence 
she  did  not  even  start  in  resentment  at 
his  sudden  appearance,  but,  turning  to 
Duncan,  exclaimed  victoriously — 

"  Hear  till  yer  ain  oye  !  He's  a  laad 
o'  sense!" 

"Ay,  hear  to  him!"  rejoined  the  old 
man  with  pride.  "My  Malcolm  will  al- 
ways pe  speaking  tat  which  will  pe  worth 
ta  hearing  with  ta  ears.  Poth  of  you 
and  me  will  pe  knowing  ta  Mistress  Cat- 
anach pretty  well — eh,  Malcolm,  my  son  ? 
We'll  not  pe  trusting  her  ferry  too  much 
— will  we,  my  son  ?" 

"No  a  hair,  daddy,"  returned  Mal- 
colm. 

"She's  a  dooms  clever  wife,  though  ; 
an'  ane  'at  ye  may  lippen  till  i'  the  w'y 
o'  her  ain  callin',"  said  Meg  Partan, 
whose  temper  had  improved  a  little  under 
the  influence  of  the  handsome  youth's 
presence  and  cheery  speech. 

"  She'll  not  pe  toubting  it,"  responded 
Duncan;  "put,  ach !  ta  voman  '11  be 
hafing  a  crim  feesage  and  a  fearsome 
eye !" 


Like  all  the  blind,  he  spoke  as  if  he 
saw  perfectly. 

"Weel,  I  hae  hard  fowk  say  'at  ye 
bude  [behoved)  to  hae  the  second. sicht," 
said  Mrs.  Findlay,  laughing  rudely ; 
"but  wow!  it  Stan's  ye  in  sma'  service 
gien  that  be  a'  it  comes  till.  She's  a 
guid-natur'd,  sonsy -luikin'  wife  as  ye 
wad  see  ;  an'  for  her  een,  they're  jist  sic 
likes  mine  ain. — Haena  ye  near  dune 
wi'  that  lamp  yet?" 

"The  week  of  it  '11  pe  shust  a  leetle 
out  of  orter,"  answered  the  old  man. 
"Ta  pairns  has  peen  pulling  it  up  with  a 
peen  from  ta  top,  and  not  putting  it  in 
at  ta  hole  for  ta  purpose.  And  she'll  pe 
thinking  you'll  pe  cleaning  off"  ta  purnt 
part  with  a  peen  yourself,  ma'am,  and 
not  with  ta  pair  of  scissors  she  tolt  you 
of.  Mistress  Partan." 

"Gae  'wa'  wi'  yer  nonsense!"  cried 
Meg.  "  Daur  ye  say  I  dinna  ken  hoo 
to  trim  an  uilyie  lamp  wi'  the  best 
blin'  piper  ever  cam  frae  the  bare-leggit 
Heelans  ?" 

"A  choke's  a  choke,  ma'am,"  said 
Duncan,  rising  with  dignity  ;  "  put  for  a 
laty  to  make  a  choke  of  a  man's  pare 
leks  is  not  ta  propriety  !" 

"Oot  o'  my  hoose  wi'  ye!"  screamed 
the  she-Partan.  "  Wad  ye  threep  [insist) 
upo'  me  onything  I  said  was  less  nor 
proaper.  'At  /  sud  say  what  wadna 
Stan'  the  licht  as  weel's  the  bare  houghs 
o'  only  heelan  rascal  'at  ever  lap  a  law- 
Ian'  dyke  !" 

"Hoot  toot!  Mistress  Findlay,"  inter- 
posed Malcolm,  as  his  grandfather  strode 
from  the  door ;  "  ye  maunna  forget  'at 
he's  auld  an'  blin' ;  an'  a'  heelan'  fowk's 
some  kittle  [touchy)  aboot  their  legs." 

"  Deil  shochle  them !"  exclaimed  the 
Partaness  ;  "what  care  I  for  's  legs  ?" 

Duncan  had  brought  the  germ  of  this 
ministry  of  light  from  his  native  High- 
lands, where  he  had  practiced  it  in  his 
own  house,  no  one  but  himself  being 
permitted  to  clean,  or  fill,  or  indeed, 
trim  the  lamp.  How  first  this  came 
about,  I  do  not  believe  the  old  man 
himself  knew.  But  he  must  have  had 
some  feeling  of  a  call  to  the  work  ;  for 
he  had  not  been  a  month  in  Portlossie, 
before  he  had  installed  himself  in  several 


MALCOLM. 


57 


families  as  the  genius  of  their  lamps,  and 
he  gradually  extended  the  relation  until 
it  comprehended  almost  all  the  houses 
n  the  village. 

It  was  strange  and  touching  to  see  the 
sightless  man  thus  busy  about  light  for 
others.  A  marvelous  symbol  of  faith  he 
was — not  only  believing  in  sight,  but  in 
the  mysterious,  and  to  him  altogether 
unintelligible,  means  by  which  others 
saw  !  In  thus  lending  his  aid  to  a  faculty 
in  which  he  had  no  share,  he  himself  fol- 
lowed the  trail  of  the  garments  of  Light, 
stooping  ever  and  anon  to  lift  and  bear 
her  skirts.  He  haunted  the  steps  of  the 
unknown  Power,  and  flitted  about  the 
walls  of  her  temple,  as  we  mortals  haunt 
the  borders  of  the  immortal  land,  know- 
•  ing  nothing  of  what  lies  behind  the  un- 
seen veil,  yet  believing  in  an  unrevealed 
grandeur.  Or  shall  we  say  he  stood  like 
the  forsaken  meraian,  who,  having  no 
soul  to  be  saved,  yet  lingered  and  listen- 
ed outside  the  prayer-echoing  church  ? 
Only  old  Duncan  had  got  farther :  though 
he  saw  not  a  glimmer  of  the  glory,  he 
yet  asserted  his  part  and  lot  in  it,  by  the 
aiding  of  his  fellows  to  that  of  which  he 
lacked  the  very  conception  himself.  He 
was  a  doorkeeper  in  the  house,  yea,  by 
faith  the  blind  man  became  even  a  priest 
in  the  temple  of  Light. 

Even  when  his  grandchild  was  the 
merest  baby,  he  would  never  allow  the 
gloaming  to  deepen  into  night  without 
kindling  for  his  behoof  the  brightest  and 
cleanest  of  train-oil  lamps.  The  women 
who  at  first  looked  in  to  offer  their  ser- 
vices, would  marvel  at  the  trio  of  blind 
man,  babe,  and  burning  lamp,  and  some 
would  expostulate  with  him  on  the  need- 
less waste.  But  neither  would  he  listen 
to  their  words,  nor  accept  their  offered 
assistance  in  dressing  or  undressing  the 
child.  The  sole  manner  in  which  he 
would  consent  to  avail  himself  of  their 
willingness  to  help  him,  was  to  leave  the 
baby  in  charge  of  this  or  that  neighbor 
while  he  went  his  rounds  with  the  bag- 
pipes :  when  he  went  lamp-cleaning  he 
always  took  him  along  with  him. 

By  this  change  of  guardians  Malcolm 
was  a  great  gainer,  for  thus  he  came  to 
be  surreptitiously  nursed  by  a  baker's 


dozen  of  mothers,  who  had  a  fund  of 
not  very  wicked  amusement  in  the  lam- 
entations of  the  old  man  over  his  baby's 
refusal  of  nourishment,  and  his  fears 
that  he  was  pining  away.  But  while 
they  honestly  declared  that  a  healthier 
child  had  never  been  seen  in  Portlossie, 
they  were  compelled  to  conceal  the  too 
satisfactory  reasons  of  the  child's  fastidi- 
ousness ;  for  they  were  persuaded  that 
the  truth  would  only  make  Duncan  ter- 
ribly jealous,  and  set  him  on  contriving 
how  at  once  to  play  his  pipes  and  carry 
his  baby. 

He  had  certain  days  for  visiting  cer- 
tain houses,  and  cleaning  the  lamps  in 
them.  The  housewives  had  at  first  grant- 
ed him  as  a  privilege  the  indulgence  of 
his  whim,  and  as  such  alone  had  Dun- 
can regarded  it ;  but  by  and  by,  when 
they  found  their  lamps  burn  so  much 
better  from  being  properly  attended  to, 
they  began  to  make  him  some  small  re- 
turn ;  and  at  length  it  became  the  cus- 
tom with  every  housewife  who  accepted 
his  services,  to  pay  him  a  half-penny  a 
week  during  the  winter  months  for  clean- 
ing her  lamp.  He  never  asked  for  it ; 
if  payment  was  omitted,  never  even  hint- 
ed at  it ;  received  what  was  given  him 
thankfully  ;  and  was  regarded  with  kind- 
ness, and,  indeed,  respect,  by  all.  Even 
Mrs.  Partan,  as  he  alone  called  her,  was 
his  true  friend  :  no  intensity  of  friendship 
could  have  kept  her  from  scolding.  I 
believe  if  we  could  thoroughly  dissect  the 
natures  of  scolding  women,  we  should 
find  them  in  general  not  at  all  so  un- 
friendly as  they  are  unpleasant. 

A  small  trade  in  oil  arose  from  his 
connection  with  the  lamps,  and  was 
added  to  the  list  of  his  general  dealings. 
The  fisher-folk  made  their  own  oil,  but 
sometimes  it  would  run  short,  and  then 
recourse  was  had  to  Duncan's  little  store, 
prepared  by  himself  of  the  best,  chiefly, 
now,  from  the  livers  of  fish  caught  by 
his  grandson.  With  so  many  sources 
of  income,  no  one  wondered  at  his 
getting  on.  Indeed,  no  one  would  have 
been  surprised  to  hear,  loftg  before 
Malcolm  had  begun  to  earn  anything, 
that  the  old  man  had  already  laid  by 
a  trifle. 


58 


MALCOLM. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
THE   SLOPE   OF   THE   DUNE. 

Looking  at  Malcolm's  life  from  the 
point  of  his  own  consciousness,  and  not 
from  that  of  the  so-called  world,  it  was 
surely  pleasant  enough !  Innocence, 
devotion  to  another,  health,  pleasant 
labor,  with  an  occasional  shadow  of  dan- 
ger to  arouse  the  energies,  leisure,  love 
of  reading,  a  lofty-minded  friend,  and, 
above  all,  a  supreme  presence,  visible  to 
his  heart  in  the  meeting  of  vaulted  sky 
and  outspread  sea,  and  felt  at  moments 
in  any  waking  wind  that  cooled  his 
glowing  cheek  and  breathed  into  him 
anew  of  the  breath  of  life, — lapped  in 
such  conditions,  bathed  in  such  influ- 
ences, the  youth's  heart  was  swelling  like 
a  rosebud  ready  to  burst  into  blossom. 

But  he  had  never  yet  felt  the  imme- 
diate presence  of  woman  in  any  of  her 
closer  relations.  He  had  never  known 
mother  or  sister  ;  and,  although  his  voice 
always  assumed  a  different  tone  and  his 
manner  grew  more  gentle  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman,  old  or  young,  he 
had  found  little  individually  attractive 
amongst  the  fisher-girls.  There  was  not 
much  in  their  circumstances  to  bring 
out  the  finer  influences  of  womankind 
in  them :  they  had  rough  usage,  hard 
work  at  the  curing  and  carrying  of  fish 
and  the  drying  of  nets,  little  education, 
and  but  poor  religious  instruction.  At  the 
same  time  any  failure  in  what  has  come 
to  be  specially  called  ini'tiie  was  all  but 
unknown  amongst  them  ;  and  the  pro- 
found faith  in  women,  and  correspond- 
ing worship  of  everything  essential  to 
womanhood  which  essentially  belonged 
to  a  nature  touched  to  fine  issues,  had  as 
yet  met  with  no  check.  It  had  never 
come  into  Malcolm's  thought  that  thei-e 
were  live  women  capable  of  impurity. 
Mrs.  Catanach  was  the  only  woman  he 
had  ever  looked  upon  with  dislike — and 
that  dislike  had  generated  no  more  than 
the  vaguest  suspicion.  Let  a  woman's 
faults  be  all  that  he  had  ever  known  in 
woman,  he  yet  could  look  on  her  with 
reverence — and  the  very  heart  of  rever- 
ence is  love ;  whence  it  may  be  plainly 
seen  that  Malcolm's  nature  was  at  once 
prepared  fur  much  delight,  and  exposed 


to  much  suffering.  It  followed  that  all 
the  women  of  his  class  loved  and  trusted 
him  ;  and  hence  in  part  it  came  tliat, 
absolutely  free  of  arrogance,  he  was  yet 
confident  in  the  presence  of  women. 
The  tradesmen's  daughters  in  the  upper 
town  took  pains  to  show  him  how  high 
above  him  they  were,  and  women  of 
better  position  spoke  to  him  with  a  kind 
condescension  that  made  him  feel  the 
gulf  that  separated  them  ;  but  to  one  an(J 
all  he  spoke  with  the  frankness  of  manly 
freedom. 

But  he  had  now  arrived  at  that  season 
when,  in  the  order  of  things,  a  man  is 
compelled  to  have  at  least  a  glimmer  of 
the  life  which  consists  in  sharing  life 
with  another.  When  once,  through  the 
thousand  unknown  paths  of  creation,  the 
human  being  is  so  far  divided  from  God 
that  his  individuality  is  secured,  it  has 
become  yet  more  needful  that  the  crust 
gathered  around  him  in  the  process 
should  be  broken ;  and  the  love  between 
man  and  woman,  arising  from  a  differ- 
ence deep  in  the  heart  of  God,  and  es- 
sential to  the  very  being  of  each — for  by 
no  words  can  I  express  my  scorn  of  the 
evil  fancy  that  the  distinction  between 
them  is  solely  or  even  primarily  physical 
— is  one  of  His  most  powerful  forces  for 
blasting  the  wall  of  separation,  and,  first 
step  toward  the  universal  harmony,  of 
twain  making  one.  That  love  should  be 
capable  of  ending  in  such  vermiculate 
results  as  too  often  appear,  is  no  more 
against  the  loveliness  of  the  divine  idea, 
than  that  the  forms  of  man  and  woman, 
the  spirit  gone  from  them,  should  degen- 
erate to  such  things  as  may  not  be  look- 
ed upon.  There  is  no  plainer  sign  of 
the  need  of  a  God,  than  the  possible  fate 
of  Love.  The  celestial  Cupido  may  soar 
aloft  on  seraph  wings  that  assert  his 
origin,  or  fall  down  on  the  belly  of  a 
snake  and  creep  to  hell. 

But  Malcolm  was  not  of  the  stuff  of 
which  coxcombs  are  made,  and  had  not 
begun  to  think  even  of  the  abyss  that 
separated  Lady  Florimcl  and  himself — 
an  abyss  like  that  between  star  and  star, 
across  which  stretches  no  mediating  air 
— a  blank  and  blind  space.  He  felt  her 
presence  only  as  that  of  a  being  to  be 


MALCOLM. 


59 


worshiped,  to  be  heard  with  rapture, 
and  yet  addressed  without  fear. 

Though  not  greatly  prejudiced  in  favor 
of  books,  Lady  Florimel  had  burrowed 
a  httle  in  the  old  library  at  Lossie  House, 
and  had  chanced  on  the  Faerie  Queene. 
She  had  often  come  upon  the  name  of 
the  author  in  books  of  extracts,  and  now, 
turning  over  its  leaves,  she  found  her 
own.  Indeed,  where  else  could  her 
mother  have  found  the  name  Florimel? 
Her  curiosity  was  roused,  and  she  re- 
solved— no  light  undertaking — to  read 
the  poem  through,  and  see  who  and 
what  the  lady,  Florimel,  was.  Notwith- 
standing the  difficulty  she  met  with  at 
first,  she  had  persevered,  and  by  this  time 
it  had  become  easy  enough.  The  copy 
she  had  found  was  in  small  volumes,  of 
which  she  now  carried  one  about  with 
her  wherever  she  wandered  ;  and  making 
her  first  acquaintance  with  the  sea  and 
the  poem  together,  she  soon  came  to 
fancy  that  she  could  not  fix  her  attention 
on  the  book  without  the  sound  of  the 
waves  for  an  accompaniment  to  the  verse 
— although  the  gentler  noise  of  an  ever- 
flowing  stream  would  have  better  suited 
the  nature  of  Spenser's  rhythm ;  for  in- 
deed, he  had  composed  the  greater  part 
of  the  poem  with  such  a  sound  in  his 
ears,  and  there  are  indications  in  the 
poem  itself  that  he  consciously  took  the 
river  as  his  chosen  analogue  after  which 
to  model  the  flow  of  his  verse. 

It  was  a  sultry  afternoon,  and  Florimel 
lay  on  the  seaward  side  of  the  dune, 
buried  in  her  book.  The  sky  was  foggy 
with  heat,  and  the  sea  lay  dull,  as  if  op- 
pressed by  the  superincumbent  air,  and 
leaden  in  hue,  as  if  its  color  had  been 
destroyed  by  the  sun.  The  tide  was 
rising  slowly,  with  a  muffled  and  sleepy 
murmur  on  the  sand ;  for  here  were  no 
pebbles  to  impart  a  hiss  to  the  wave  as 
it  rushed  up  the  bank,  or  to  go  softly 
hurtling  down  the  slope  with  it  as  it 
sank.  As  she  read,  Malcolm  was  walk- 
ing toward  her  along  the  top  of  the  dune, 
but  not  until  he  came  almost  above 
where  she  lay,  did  she  hear  his  step  in 
the  soft  quenching  sand. 

She  nodded  kindly,  and  he  descended, 
approaching  her. 


"Did  ye  want  me,  my  leddy?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  she  answered. 

"  I  wasna  sure  whether  ye  noddit  'cause 
ye  wantit  me,  or  no,"  said  Malcolm,  and 
turned  to  reascend  the  dune. 

"Where  are  you  going  now?"  she 
asked. 

"Ow!  nae  gait  in  particular.  I  jist 
cam  oot  to  see  hoo  things  war  luikin'." 

"What  things?" 

"  Ow !  jist  the  lift  [sky'),  an'  the  sea, 
an'  sic  generals." 

That  Malcolm's  delight  in  the  pres- 
ences of  Nature — I  say  presences,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  forms  and  colors  and 
all  analyzed  sources  of  her  influences — 
should  have  already  become  a  conscious 
thing  to  himself,  requires  to  account  for 
it  the  fact  that  his  master,  Graham,  was 
already  under  the  influences  of  Words- 
worth, whom  he  had  hailed  as  a  Crabbe 
that  had  burst  his  shell  and  spread  the 
wings  of  an  eagle :  the  virtue  passed 
from  him  to  his  pupil. 

"  I  won't  detain  you  from  such  import- 
ant business,"  said  Lady  Florimel,  and 
dropped  her  eyes  on  her  book. 

"Gien  ye  want  my  company,  my  led- 
dy, I  can  luik  aboot  me  jist  as  weel  here 
as  ony  ither  gait,"  said  Malcolm. 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  gently  stretched 
himself  on  the  dune,  about  three  yards 
aside  and  lower  down.  Florimel  looked 
half  amused  and  half  annoyed,  but  she 
had  brought  it  on  herself,  and  would 
punish  him  only  by  dropping  her  eyes 
again  ort  her  book,  and  keeping  silent. 
She  had  come  to  the  Florimel  of  snow. 

Malcolm  lay  and  looked  at  her  for  a 
few  moments  pondering  ;  then  fancying 
he  had  found  the  cause  of  her  offence, 
rose,  and,  passing  to  the  other  side  of 
her,  again  lay  down,  but  at  a  still  more 
respectful  distance. 

"Why  do  you  move?"  she  asked, 
without  looking  up. 

"  'Cause  there's  jist  a  possible  air  o' 
win'  frae  the  nor'-east." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  shelter  you  from 
it  ?"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

"Na,  na,  my  leddy,"  returned  Mal- 
colm, laughing  ;  "for  as  bonny  's  ye  are, 
ye  wad  be  but  sma'  scoug  [shelter)." 


6o 


MALCOLM. 


"Why  did  you  move,  then,"  persisted 
the  girl,  who  understood  what  he  said 
just  about  half. 

"Weel,  my  leddy,  ye  see  it's  het,  an' 
I'm  aye  amang  the  fish  mair  or  less,  an' 
I  didna  ken  'at  I  was  to  hae  the  honor 
o'  sittin'  doon  aside  ye ;  sae  I  thocht  ye 
was  maybe  smellin'  the  fish.  It's  healthy 
eneuch,  but  some  fowk  disna  like  it ;  an' 
for  a'  that  I  ken,  you  gran'  fowk's  senses 
may  be  mair  ready  to  scunner  [take  of- 
fence) than  oors.  'Deed,  my  leddy,  we 
wadna  need  to  be  patliclar  whiles,  or  it 
wad  be  the  waur  for  's  !" 

Simple  as  it  was,  the  explanation 
served  to  restore  her  equanimity,  dis- 
turbed by  what  had  seemed  his  pre- 
sumption in  lying  down  in  her  presence : 
she  saw  that  she  had  mistaken  the  ac- 
tion. The  fact  was,  that,  concluding 
from  her  behavior  she  had  something  to 
say  to  him,  but  was  not  yet  at  leisure  for 
him,  he  had  lain  down,  as  a  loving  dog 
might,  to  await  her  time.  It  was  devo- 
tion, not  coolness.  To  remain  standing 
before  her  would  have  seemed  a  demand 
on  her  attention  ;  to  lie  down  was  to 
withdraw  and  wait.  But  Florimel,  al- 
though pleased,  was  only  the  more  in- 
clined to  torment — a  peculiarity  of  dis- 
position which  she  inherited  from  her 
father :  she  bowed  her  face  once  more 
over  her  book,  and  read  through  three 
whole  stanzas,  without,  however,  under- 
standing a  single  phrase  in  them,  before 
she  spoke.  Then  looking  up,  and  re- 
garding for  a  moment  the  youth  who  lay 
watching  her  with  the  eyes  of  the  ser- 
vants in  the  psalm,  she  said — 

"  Well  ?    What  are  you  waiting  for  ?" 

"  I  thocht  ye  wantit  me,  my  leddy  !  I 
beg  yer  pardon,"  answered  Malcolm, 
springing    to   his   feet,    and   turning  to 

go- 

"  Do  you  ever  read  ?"  she  asked. 

"Aften  that,"  replied  Malcolm,  turn- 
ing again,  and  standing  stock-still.  "An' 
I  like  best  to  read  jest  as  yer  leddyship's 
readin'  the  noo,  lyin'  o'  the  san'-hill, 
wi'  the  haill  sea  afore  me,'  an'  nothing 
atween  me  an'  the  icebergs  but  the  wat- 
ter  an'  the  stars  an'  a  wheen  islands. 
It's  like  readin'  wi'  fowcr  cen,  that?" 

"And  what  do  you  read  on  such  occa- 


sions ?"  carelessly  drawled  his  perse- 
cutor. 

"  Whiles  ae  thing  an'  whiles  anither — 
whiles  onything  I  can  lay  my  ban's  upo'. 
I  like  traivels  an'  sic  like  weel  eneuch ; 
an'  history,  gien  it  be  na  ower  dry-like. 
I  div  not  like  sermons,  an'  there's  mair 
o'  them  in  Portlossie  than  onything  ither. 
Mr.  Graham — that's  the  schoolmaister — 
has  a  gran'  library,  but  its  maist  Laitin 
an'  Greek,  an'  though  I  like  the  Laitin 
weel,  it's  no  what  I  wad  read  i'  the  face 
o'  the  sea.  When  ye  're  in  dreid  o' 
wantin'  a  dictionar',  that  spiles  a'." 

"  Can  you  read  Latin,  then  ?" 

"  Ay :  what  for  no,  my  leddy  ?  I  can 
read  Virgil  middlin' ;  and  Horace's  Ars 
Poetica,  the  whilk  Mr.  Graham  says  is 
no  its  richt  name  ava,  but  jist  Epistola 
ad  Pisones ;  for  gien  they  bude  to  gie  't 
anither,  it  sud  ha'  been  Ars  Drainatica. 
But  leddies  dinna  care  aboot  sic  things." 

"  You  gentlemen  give  us  no  chance. 
You  won't  teach  us." 

"  Noo,  my  leddy,  dinna  begin  to  mak' 
ghem  o'  me,  like  my  lord.  I  cud  ill  bide 
it  frae  him,  an'  gien  ye  tak  till  't  as  weel, 
I  maun  jist  baud  oot  o'  yer  gait.  I'm 
nae  gentleman,  an'  hae  ower  muckle 
respeck  for  what  becomes  a  gentleman 
to  be  pleased  at  being  ca'd  ane.  But  as 
for  the  Laitin,  I'll  be  prood  to  instruck 
her  leddyship  whan  ye  please." 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  no  great  wish  to 
learn,"  said  Florimel. 

"I  daur  say  not,"  said  Malcolm  quiet- 
ly, and  again  addressed  himself  to  go. 

"  Do  you  like  novels  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"I  never  saw  a  novelle.  There's  no 
ane  amo'  a'  Mr.  Graham's  buiks,  an'  I 
s'  warran'  there's  full  twa  hunner  o' 
tkevi.  I  dinna  believe  there's  a  single 
novelle  in  a'  Portlossie." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  :  there  are  a  good 
many  in  our  library." 

"  I  hadna  the  presumption,  my  leddy, 
to  coont  the  Hoose  in  Portlossie. — Ye  'II 
hae  a  sicht  o'  buiks  up  there,  no  ?" 

"  Have  you  never  been  in  the  library  ?" 

"  I  never  set  fut  i'  the  hoose — 'cep'  i' 
the  kitchie,  an'  ance  or  twise  steppin' 
across  the  ha'  frae  the  ae  door  to  the 
tither.  I  wad  fain  see  what  kin'  o'  a 
place  great  fowk  like  you  bidcb  in,  an* 


MALCOLM. 


6i 


what  kin'  o'  things,  buiks  an'  a',  ye  hae 
aboot  ye.  It's  no  easy  for  the  hke  o' 
huz  'at  has  but  a  but  an'  a  ben  {outer 
ajid  inner  room),  to  unnerstan'  hoo  ye 
fill  sic  a  muckle  place  as  yon.  I  wad  be 
aye  i'  the  libbrary,  I  think.  But,"  he 
went  on,  glancing  involuntarily  at  the 
dainty  little  foot  that  peered  from  under 
her  dress,  "yer  leddyship's  sae  licht-fittit, 
ye'll  be  ower  the  haill  dwallin',  like  a 
wee  bird  in  a  muckle  cage.  Whan  I 
want  room,  I  like  it  wantin'  wa's." 

Once  more  he  was  on  the  point  of 
going,  but  once  more  a  word  detained 
him. 

"Do  you  ever  read  poetry  ?" 
"Ay,  sometimes — whan  it's  auld." 
"One  would  think  you  were  talking 
about  wine !     Does  age  improve  poetry 
as  well  ?" 

"  I  ken  naething  aboot  wine,  my  leddy. 
Miss  Horn  gae  me  a  glaiss  the  ither  day, 
an'  it  tastit  weel,  but  whether  it  was 
meriini  or  mixtitm,  I  couldna  tell  mair 
nor  a  haddick.  Doobtless  age  does  gar 
poetry  smack  a  wee  better;  but  I  said 
auld  only  'cause  there's  sae  little  new 
poetry  that  I  care  aboot  comes  my  gait. 
Mr.  Graham's  unco  ta'en  wi  Maister 
Wordsworth — no  an  ill  name  for  a  poet : 
do  ye  ken  onything  aboot  him,  my 
leddy?" 

"  I  never  heard  of  him." 
"  I  wadna  gie  an  auld  Scots  ballant  for 
a  barrowfu'  o'  his.     There's  gran'  bits 
here  an'  there,  nae  doobt,  but  it's  ower 
mim-mou'ed  for  me." 

"  W^hat  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 
"  It's  ower  saft  an'  sliddery-like  i'  yer 
mou',  my  leddy." 

"What  sort  do  you  like,  then  ?" 
"  I  like  Milton  weel.     Ye  get  a  fine 
mou'fu'  Qt  him.     I  dinna  like  the  verse 
'at  ye  can  murle  [crumble)  oot  atween 
yer  lips  an'  yer  teeth.     I  like  the  verse 
'at  ye   maun   open    yer  mou'   weel  to 
lat  gang.     Syne   it's  worth    yer  while, 
whether  ye  unnerstan'  't  or  no." 
"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that." 
"  Jist  hear,  my  leddy  !     Here's  a  bit  I 
cam  upo'  last  nicht : 

His  volant  touch, 
Instinct  through  all  proportions,  low  and  high. 
Fled  and  pursued  transverse  the  resonant  fugue. 


Hear  till 't !  It's  gran' — even  though  ye 
dinna  ken  what  it  means  a  bit." ' 

"I  do  know  what  it  means,"  said  Flo- 
rimel.  "  Let  me  see  :  volant  means — ■ 
what  does  volant  mean  ?" 

"  It  means  fieein\  I  suppose." 

"Well,  he  means  some  musician  or 
other." 

"Of  coorse  ;  it  maun  be  Jubal. — I  ken 
a'  the  words  hnt  fugue  ;  though  I  canna 
tell  what  business  institict  Txn  proportions 
hae  there." 

"  It's  describing  how  the  man's  fingers, 
playing  a  fugue — on  the  organ,  I  sup- 
pose— " 

"  A  fugue  '11  be  some  kin'  o'  a  tune, 
than  ?  That  casts  a  heap  o'  licht  on't, 
my  leddy. — I  never  saw  an  organ  :  what 
is  't  like  ?" 

"Something  like  a  pianoforte." 

"  But  I  never  saw  ane  o'  them,  either. 
It's  ill  makin'  things  a'thegither  oot  o' 
yer  ain  heid." 

"Well,  it's  played  with  the  fingers — 
like  this,"  said  Florimel.  "And  the 
fugue  is  a  kind  of  piece  where  one  part 
pursues  the  other — " 

"An'  syne,"  cried  Malcolm  eagerly, 
"that  ane  turns  roon'  an'  rins  efter  the 
first ; — that  '11  be  'fled  and ptir sued  trans- 
verse.' I  hae't !  I  hae't !  See,  my  led- 
dy, what  it  is  to  hae  sic  schoolin',  wi' 
music  an'  a' !  The  proportions — that's 
the  relation  o'  the  notes  to  ane  anither ; 
2in'  fugue — that  comes  ix-s.^  fugere ,  to  flee 
—  fled  and  pursued  transverse  the  reso- 
nant fugue ' — the  tane  rinnin'  efter  the 
tither,  roon'  an'  roon'.  Ay,  I  hae't  noo ! 
— Resonant — that's  echoing  or  resound- 
ing.  But  what's  instinct,  my  leddy  ?  It 
maun  be  an  adjective,  I'm  thinkin'." 

Although  the  modesty  of  Malcolm  had 
led  him  to  conclude  the  girl  immeasur- 
ably his  superior  in  learning  because  she 
could  tell  him  what  a  fugue  was,  he  soon 
found  she  could  help  him  no  further,  for 
she  understood  scarcely  anything  about 
grammar,  and  her  vocabulary  was  limit- 
ed enough.  Not  a  doubt  interfered,  how- 
ever, with  her  acceptance  of  the  imputed 
superiority ;  for  it  is  as  easy  for  some  to 
assume  as  it  is  for  others  to  yield. 

"I  hae't!  It  is  an  adjective,"  cried 
Malcolm,  after  a  short  pause  of  thought. 


62 


MALCOLM. 


"  It's  the  /o2ic/i  that's  instinct.  But  I 
fancy  there  sud  be  a  comma  efter  instinct. 
— His  fingers  were  sae  used  till  't  that 
they  could  'maist  do  the  thing  o'  them- 
sel's.— Isna  't  lucky,  my  leddy,  that  I 
thocht  o'  sayin'  't  ower  to  you  ?  I'll  read 
the  buik  frae  the  beginnin' — it's  the  neist 
to  the  last,  I  think — ^jist  to  come  upo'  the 
twa  lines  i'  their  ain  place,  ohn  their  ex- 
peckin'  me  Hke,  an'  see  hoo  gran'  they 
soon'  whan  a  body  unnerstan's  them. 
Thank  ye,  my  leddy." 

"  I  suppose  you  read  Milton  to  your 
grandfather?" 

"Ay,  sometimes  —  i'  the  lang  fore- 
nichts." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  fore- 
nightsT' 

"I  mean  efter  it's  dark  an'  afore  ye 
gang  to  yer  bed. — He  likes  the  battles 
o'  the  angels  best.  As  sune  's  it  comes 
to  ony  fechtin',  up  he  gets,  an'  gangs 
stridin'  aboot  the  flure ;  an'  whiles  he 
maks  a  claucht  at 's  claymore  ;  an'  faith  ! 
ance  he  maist  cawed  aff  my  heid  wi'  't, 
for  he  had  made  a  mistak  about  whaur  I 
was  sittin'." 

"  What's  a  claymore  f 

"A  muckle  heelan'  braidswoord,  my 
leddy.  Clay  frae  gladiiis,  verra  likly ; 
an'  more?,  the  Gaelic  {qx  great:  claymore, 
great  sword.  Blin'  as  my  gran'father  is, 
ye  wad  sweer  he  had  fochten  in  's  day, 
gien  ye  hard  hoo  he'll  gar  't  whurr  an' 
whustle  aboot 's  heid  as  gien  't  was  a  bit 
lath  o'  wud." 

"  But  that's  very  dangerous,"  said  Flo- 
rimel,  something  aghast  at  the  recital. 

"Ow,  ay  !"  assented  Malcolm,  indiffer- 
ently.— "Gien  ye  wad  luik  in,  my  leddy, 
I  wad  lat  ye  see  his  claymore,  an'  his 
dirk,  an'  his  skene  dhu,  an'  a'." 

"I  don't  think  I  could  venture.  He's  too 
dreadful !     I  should  be  terrified  at  him." 

"  Dreidfu' !  my  leddy  ?  He's  the  quai- 
etest,  kin'liest  auld  man ! — that  is,  providit 
ye  say  nacthing  for  a  Cawmill,  or  agen 
ony  ither  hielanman.  Ye  see  he  comes 
o'  Glenco,  an'  the  Cawmills  are  jist  a 
hate  till  him — specially  Cawmill  o'  Glen- 
lyon,  wha  was  the  warst  o'  them  a'.  Ye 
sud  hear  him  tell  the  story  till  's  pipes, 
my  leddy  !  It's  gran*  to  hear  him  !  An' 
the  poetry  a'  his  ain  !" 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE  STORM. 

There  came  a  blinding  flash  and  a 
roar  through  the  leaden  air,  followed  by 
heavy  drops  mixed  with  huge  hailstones. 
At  the  flash,  Florimel  gave  a  ciy  and 
half  rose  to  her  feet,  but  at  the  thunder, 
fell,  as  if  stunned  by  the  noise,  on  the 
sand.  As  if  with  a  bound,  Malcolm  was 
by  her  side,  but  when  she  perceived  his 
terror,  she  smiled,  and  laying  hold  of  his 
hand,  sprung  to  her  feet. 

"Come,  come,"  she  cried;  and  still 
holding  his  hand,  hurried  up  the  dune, 
and  down  the  other  side  of  it.  Malcolm 
accompanied  her  step  for  step,  strongly 
tempted,  however,  to  snatch  her  up,  and 
run  for  the  bored  craig :  he  could  not 
think  why  she  made  for  the  road — high 
on  an  unscalable  embankment,  with  the 
park-wall  on  the  other  side.  But  she 
ran  straight  for  a  door  in  the  embank- 
ment itself,  dark  between  two  buttresses, 
which,  never  having  seen  it  open,  he  had 
not  thought  of.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
panting  before  it,  while  with  trembling 
hand  she  put  a  key  in  the  lock  ;  the  next 
she  pushed  open  the  creaking  door  and 
entered.  As  she  turned  to  take  out  the 
key,  she  saw  Malcolm  yards  away  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  and  in  a  cataract  of 
rain,  which  seemed  to  have  with  difficul- 
ty suspended  itself  only  until  the  lady 
should  be  under  cover.  He  stood  with 
his  bonnet  in  his  hand,  watching  for  a 
farewell  glance. 

"Why  don't  you  come  in?"  she  said 
impatiently. 

He  was  beside  her  in  a  moment. 

"I  didna  ken  ye  wad  let  me  in,"  he 
said. 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  drowned,"  she 
returned,  shutting  the  door. 

"  Droont !"  he  repeated.  "  It  wad  tak 
a  hantle  [great  deal)  to  droon  me.  I 
stack  to  the  boddom  o'  a  whumled  boat 
a  haill  nicht  when  I  was  but  fifcteen." 

They  stood  in  a  tunnel  which  passed 
under  the  road,  affording  immediate 
communication  between  the  park  and 
the  shore.  The  farther  end  of  it  was 
dark  with  trees.  The  upper  half  of  the 
door  by  which  they  had  entered  was  a 
wooden  grating,  for  the   admission  of 


MALCOLM. 


63 


light,  and  through  it  they  were  now  gaz- 
ing, though  they  could  see  hltle  but  the 
straight  hnes  of  almost  perpendicular 
rain  that  scratched  out  the  colors  of  the 
landscape.  The  sea  was  troubled,  al- 
though no  wind  blew  ;  it  heaved  as  with 
an  inward  unrest.  But  suddenly  there 
was  a  great  broken  sound  somewhere  in 
the  air ;  and  the  next  moment  a  storm 
came  tearing  over  the  face  of  the  sea, 
covering  it  with  blackness  innumerably 
rent  into  spots  of  white.  Presently  it 
struck  the  shore,  and  a  great  rude  blast 
came  roaring  through  the  grating,  carry- 
ing with  it  a  sheet  of  rain,  and,  catching 
Florimel's  hair,  sent  it  streaming  wildly 
out  behind  her. 

"  Dinna  ye  think,  my  leddy,"  said 
Malcolm,  "ye  had  better  mak  for  the 
hoose  ?  What  wi'  the  win'  an'  the  weet 
thegither,  ye'll  be  gettin'  yer  deith  o' 
cauld.  I  s'  gang  wi'  ye  sae  far,  gien 
ye'll  alloo  me,  jist  to  haud  it  ohn  blawn 
ye  awa'." 

The  wind  suddenly  fell,  and  his  last 
words  echoed  loud  in  the  vaulted  way. 
For  a  moment  it  grew  darker  in  the 
silence,  and  th^n  a  great  flash  carried 
the  world  away  with  it,  and  left  nothing 
but  blackness  behind.  A  roar  of  thun- 
der followed,  and  even  while  it  yet  bel- 
lowed, a  white  face  flitted  athwart  the 
grating,  and  a  voice  of  agony  shrieked 
aloud  : 

"  I  dinna  ken  whaur  it  comes  frae  !" 

Florimel  grasped  Malcolm's  arm  :  the 
face  had  passed  close  to  hers — only  the 
grating  between,  and  the  cry  cut  through 
the  thunder  like  a  knife. 

Instinctively,  almost  unconsciously,  he 
threw  his  arm  around  her,  to  shield  her 
from  her  own  terror. 

"Dinna  be  fleyt,  my  leddy,"  he  said 
"  It's  naething  but  the  mad  laird.  He's 
a  quaiet  cratur  eneuch,  only  he  disna 
ken  whaur  he  comes  frae — he  disna  ken 
whaur  onything  comes  frae — an'  he  can- 
na  bide  it.  But  he  wadna  hurt  leevin' 
cratur,  the  laird." 

"What  a  dreadful  face !"  said  the  girl, 
shuddering. 

"  It's  no  an  ill-faured  face,"  said  Mal- 
colm, "  only  the  storm's  frichtit  him  by 
ord'nar,  an'  it's  unco  ghaistly  the  noo." 


"  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done  for  him  ?" 
she  said  compassionately. 

"No  upo'  this  side  the  grave,  I  doobt, 
my  leddy,"  answered  Malcolm. 

Here,  coming  to  herself,  the  girl  be- 
came aware  of  her  support,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  Malcolm's  to  remove  his  arm. 
He  obeyed  instantly,  and  she  said 
nothing. 

"  There  was  some  speech,"  he  went  on 
hurriedly,  with  a  quaver  in  his  voice,  "o' 
pittin'  him  intill  the  asylum  at  Aberdeen, 
an'  noo  lattin'  him  scoor  the  queentry 
this  gait,  they  said ;  but  it  wad  hae  been 
sheer  cruelty,  for  the  cratur  likes  nae- 
thing sae  weel  as  rinnin'  aboot,  an'  does 
no  mainner  o'  hurt.  A  verra  bairn  can 
guide  him.  An'  he  has  jist  as  guid  a 
richt  to  the  leeberty  God  gies  him  as  ony 
man  alive,  an'  mair  nor  a  hantle  [more 
than  7natiy)y 

"  Is  nothing  known  about  him  ?" 

"A'  thing's  known  aboot  him,  my  led- 
dy, 'at  's  known  aboot  the  lave  {rt;s/)  o' 
's.  His  father  was  the  laird  o'  Gersefell 
— an'  for  that  maitter  he's  laird  himsel' 
noo.  But  they  say  he's  taen  sic  a  scun- 
ner [disgust)  at  his  mither,  that  he  canna 
bide  the  verra  word  o'  inither :  he  jist 
cries  oot  whan  he  hears  't." 

"  It  seems  clearing,"  said  Florimel. 

"I  doobt  it's  only  haudin'  up  for  a 
wee,"  returned  Malcolm,  after  surveying 
as  much  of  the  sky  as  was  visible  through 
the  bars ;  "but  I  do  think  ye  had  better 
rin  for  the  hoose,  my  leddy.  I  s'  jist  fol- 
low ye,  a  feow  yairds  ahin',  till  I  see  ye 
safe.  Dinna  ye  be  feared — I  s'  tak  guid 
care :  I  wadna  hae  ye  seen  i'  the  com- 
pany o'  a  fisher-lad  like  me." 

There  was  no  doubting  the  perfect 
simplicity  with  which  this  was  said,  and 
the  girl  took  no  exception.  They  left 
the  tunnel,  and  skirting  the  bottom  of 
the  little  hill  on  which  stood  the  temple 
of  the  winds,  were  presently  in  the  midst 
of  a  young  wood,  through  which  a  grav- 
eled path  led  toward  the  House.  But 
they  had  not  gone  far  ere  a  blast  of 
wind,  more  violent  than  any  that  had 
preceded  it,  smote  the  wood,  and  the 
trees,  young  larches  and  birches  and 
sycamores,  bent  streaming  before  it. 
Lady  Florimel  turned  to  see  where  Mai- 


64 


MALCOLM. 


colm  was,  and  her  hair  went  from  her 
hke  a  Maenad's,  while  her  garments  flew 
fluttering  and  straining,  as  if  strugghng 
to  carry  her  off.  She  had  never  in  her 
life  before  been  out  in  a  storm,  and  she 
found  the  battle  joyously  exciting.  The 
roaring  of  the  wind  in  the  trees  was 
grand ;  and  what  seemed  their  terrified 
struggles  while  they  bowed  and  writhed 
and  rose  but  to  bow  again,  as  in  mad 
effort  to  unfix  their  earth-bound  roots 
and  escape,  took  such  sympathetic  hold 
of  her  imagination,  that  she  flung  out 
her  arms,  and  began  to  dance  and  whirl 
as  if  herself  the  genius  of  the  storm. 
Malcolm,  who  had  been  some  thirty 
paces  behind,  was  with  her  in  a  moment. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid  ?"  she  cried. 

"  It  blaws  weel — verra  near  as  weel  's 
my  daddy,"  said  Malcolm,  enjoying  it 
quite  as  much  as  the  girl. 

"  How  dare  you  make  game  of  such  a 
grand  uproar?"  said  Florimel  with  supe- 
riority. 

"  Mak  ghem  o'  a  blast  o'  win'  by  com- 
parin'  't  to  my  gran'father !"  exclaimed 
Malcolm.  "Hoot,  my  leddy !  it's  a 
coamplement  to  the  biggest  blast  'at 
,  ever  blew  to  be  compairt  till  an  auld 
man  like  him.  I'm  ower  used  to  them 
to  min'  them  muckle  mysel',  'cep'  to 
fecht  wi'  them.  But  whan  I  watch  the 
sea-goos  dartin'  like  arrow-heids  throu' 
the  win',  I  sometimes  think  it  maun  be 
gran'  for  the  angels  to  caw  aboot  great 
flags  o'  wings  in  a  mortal  warstle  wi'  sic 
a  hurricane  as  this." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  one  bit,"  said 
Lady  Florimel  petulantly. 

As  she  spoke,  she  went  on,  but  the 
blast  having  abated,  Malcolm  lingered, 
to  place  a  proper  distance  between  them. 

"You  needn't  keep  so  far  behind," 
said  Florimel,  looking  back. 

"As  yer  leddyship  pleases,"  answered 
Malcolm,  and  was  at  once  by  her  side. 
"I'll  gang  till  ye  tell  me  to  stan'. — Eh, 
sae  different  's  ye  luik  frae  the  ither 
mornin'  !" 

"What  morning?" 

"Whan  ye  was  sittin'  at  the  fut  o*  the 
bored  craig." 

"  Bored  craig  !    What's  that  ?" 

"The  rock  wi'  a  hole  throu'  't.     Ye 


ken  the  rock  weel  eneuch,  my  leddy. 
Ye  was  sittin'  at  the  fut  o'  't,  readin'  yer 
bulk,  as  white's  gien  ye  had  been  made 
o'  snaw.  It  cam  to  me  that  the  rock 
was  the  sepulchre,  the  hole  the  open 
door  o'  't,  an'  yersel'  ane  o'  the  angels 
that  had  fauldit  his  wings  an'  was  wait- 
in'  for  somebody  to  tell  the  guid  news 
till,  that  He  was  up  an'  awa'." 

"And  what  do  I  look  like  to-day?" 
she  asked. 

"  Ow  !  the  day,  ye  luik  like  some  cratur 
o'  the  storm  ;  or  the  storm  itsel'  takin'  a 
leevin'  shape,  an'  the  bonniest  it  could ; 
or  maybe,  like  Ahriel,  gaein'  afore  the 
win*,  wi'  the  blast  in  's  feathers,  rufflin' 
them  a'  gaits  at  ance." 

"Who's  Ahriel?" 

"  Ow,  the  fleein'  cratur'  i'  The  Tempest/ 
But  in  your  bonny  southern  speech,  I 
daur  say  ye  wad  ca'  him — or  her,  I  dinna 
ken  whilk  the  cratur  was — ye  wad  ca'  't 
Ayriel?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  him  or 
her  or  it,"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

"  Ye'U  hae  a'  aboot  him  up  i'  the  lib- 
brary  there,  though,"  said  Malcolm. 
"  The  Tempest's  the  only  ane  o'  Shak- 
spere's  plays  'at  I  hae  read,  but  it's  a 
gran'  ane,  as  Maister  Graham  has  em- 
pooered  me  to  see." 

"Oh,  dear!"  exclaimed  Florimel,  "I've 
lost  my  book !" 

"I'll  gang  back  an'  luik  for  't,  this 
mecnute,  my  leddy,"  said  Malcolm.  "  I 
ken  ilka  fit  o'  the  road  we've  come,  an' 
it's  no  possible  but  I  fa'  in  wi'  't. — Ye'U 
sune  be  hame  noo,  an'  it'll  hardly  be  on 
again  afore  ye  win  in,"  he  added,  look- 
ing up  at  the  clouds. 

"But  how  am  I  to  get  it?  I  want  it 
very  much." 

"I'll  jist  fess  't  up  to  the  Hoose,  an' 
say  'at  I  fan'  't  whaur  I  will  fin'  't.  But 
I  wiss  ye  wad  len'  me  yer  pocket-nepkin 
to  row  't  in,  for  I'm  feared  for  blaudin" 
't  afore  I  get  it  back  to  ye." 

Horimcl  gave  him  her  handkerchief, 
and  Malcolm  took  his  leave,  saying — 

"I'll  be  up  i'  the  coorse  o'  a  half  hoor 
at  the  farthest." 

The  humble  devotion  and  absolute 
service  of  the  youth,  resembling  that  of 
a  noble  dog,  however  unlikely  to  move 


MALCOLM. 


65 


admiration  in  Lady  Florimel's  heart, 
could  not  fail  to  give  her  a  quiet  and 
welcome  pleasure.  He  was  an  inferior 
who  could  be  depended  upon,  and  his 
worship  was  acceptable.  Not  a  fear  of 
his  attentions  becoming  troublesome  ever 
crossed  her  mind.  The  wider  and  more 
impassable  the  distinctions  of  rank,  the 
more  possible  they  make  it  for  artificial 
minds  to  enter  into  simply  human  rela- 
tions ;  the  easier  for  the  oneness  of  the 
race  to  assert  itself  in  the  offering  and 
acceptance  of  a  devoted  service.  There 
is  more  of  the  genuine  human  in  the  re- 
lationship between  some  men  and  their 
servants,  than  between  those  men  and 
their  own  sons. 

With  eyes  intent,  and  keen  as  those 
of  a  gazehound,  Malcolm  retraced  every 
step,  up  to  the  grated  door.  But  no 
volume  was  to  be  seen.  Turning  from 
the  door  of  the  tunnel,  for  which  he  had 
no  Sesame,  he  climbed  to  the  foot  of  the 
wall  that  crossed  it  above,  and  with  a 
bound,  a  clutch  at  the  top,  a  pull  and  a 
scramble,  was  in  the  high  road  in  a  mo- 
ment. From  the  road  to  the  links  was 
an  easy  drop,  where,  starting  from  the 
grated  door,  he  retraced  their  path  from 
the  dune.  Lady  Florimel  had  dropped 
the  book  when  she  rose,  and  Malcolm 
found  it  lying  on  the  sand,  little  the 
worse.  He  wrapped  it  in  its  owner's 
handkerchief,  and  set  out  for  the  gate  at 
the  mouth  of  the  river. 


As  he  came  up  to  it,  the  keeper,  an 
ill-conditioned,  snarling  fellow,  who,  in 
the  phrase  of  the  Seaton-folk,  "  rade  on 
theriggin  [ridge]  o'  's  authority,"  rushed 
out  of  the  lodge,  and  just  as  Malcolm 
was  entering,  shoved  the  gate  in  his 
face. 

"Ye  comena  in  wi'oot  the  leave  o' 
me,"  he  cried  with  a  vengeful  expres- 
sion. 

"What's  that  for?"  said  Malcolm,  who 
had  already  interposed  his  great  boot, 
so  that  the  spring-bolt  could  not  reach 
its  catch. 

"There  s'  nae  lan'-loupin'  rascals 
come  in  here,"  said  Bykes,  setting  his 
shoulder  to  the  gate. 

That  instant  he  went  staggering  back 
to  the  wall  of  the  lodge,  with  the  gate 
after  him. 

"Stick  to  the  wa'  there,"  said  Malcolm, 
as  he  strode  in. 

The  keeper  pursued  him  with  frantic 
abuse,  but  he  never  turned  his  head. 
Arrived  at  the  House,  he  committed  the 
volume  to  the  cook,  with  a  brief  account 
of  where  he  had  picked  it  up,  begging 
her  to  inquire  whether  it  belonged  to 
the  House.  The  cook  sent  a  maid  with 
it  to  Lady  Florimel,  and  Malcolm  waited 
until  she  returned  —  with  thanks  and  a 
half  crown.  He  took  the  money,  and 
returned  by  the  upper  gate  through  the 
town. 


:pa.i^t  IV. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 
THE    ACCUSATION. 

THE  next  morning,  soon  after  their 
early  breakfast,  the  gatekeeper 
stood  in  the  door  of  Duncan  MacPhail's 
cottage  with  a  verbal  summons  for  Mal- 
colm to  appear  before  his  lordship, 

"An*  I'm  no  to  lowse  sicht  o'  ye  till  ye 
hae  put  in  yer  appearance,"  he  added ; 
"sae  gien  ye  dinna  come  peaceable,  I 
maun  gar  ye." 

"Whaur's  yer  warrant?"  asked  Mal- 
colm coolly. 

"  Ye  wad  hae  the  impidence  to  de- 
man'  my  warrant,  ye  young  sorner  ?" 
cried  Bykes  indignantly.  "Come  yer 
wa's,  my  man,  or  I  s'  gar  ye  smairt 
for  't." 

"  Haud  a  quaiet  sough,  an'  gang  hame 
for  yer  warrant,"  said  Malcolm.  "  It's 
lying  there,  doobtless,  or  ye  wadna  hae 
daured  to  shaw  yer  face  on  sic  an  eeran'." 

Duncan,  who  was  dozing  in  his  chair, 
awoke  at  the  sound  of  high  words.  His 
jealous  affection  perceived  at  once  that 
Malcolm  was  being  insulted.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet,  stepped  swiftly  to  the  wall, 
caught  down  his  broadsword,  and  rush- 
ed to  the  door,  making  the  huge  weapon 
quiver  and  whir  about  his  head  as  if  it 
had  been  a  slip  of  tin-plate. 

"Where  is  ta  rascal?"  he  shouted. 
"  She'll  cut  him  town  !  Show  her  ta  low- 
Ian'  thief!  She'll  cut  him  town  1  Who'll 
pe  insulting  her  Malcolm  ?" 

But  Bykes,  at  first  sight  of  the  weapon, 
had  vanished  in  dismay. 

"Hoot  toot,  daddy!"  said  Malcolm, 
taking  him  by  the  arm;  "there's  nae- 
body  here.  The  puir  cratur  couldna 
bide  the  sough  o'  the  claymore.  He 
fled  like  the  autumn  wind  over  the  stub- 
ble.    There's  Ossian  for  't." 

"Ta  Lord  pe  praised  !"  cried  Duncan. 
"She'll  pe  confounded  her  foes.  But  what 
would  ta  rascal  pe  wanting,  my  son  ?" 

Leading  him  back  to  his  chair,  Mal- 
66 


colm  told  him  as  much  as  he  knew  of 
the  matter. 

"Ton't  you  co  for  no  warrant,"  said 
Duncan.  "  If  my  lort  marquis  will  pe 
senting  for  you  as  one  chentleman  sends 
for  another,  then  you  co." 

Within  an  hour  Bykes  reappeared, 
accompanied  by  one  of  the  gamekeepers 
—  an  Englishman.  The  moment  he 
heard  the  door  open,  Duncan  caught 
again  at  his  broadsword. 

"We  want  you,  my  young  man,"  said 
the  gamekeeper,  standing  on  the  thresh- 
old, with  Bykes  peeping  over  his  shoul- 
der, in  an  attitude  indicating  one  foot 
already  lifted  to  run. 

"What  for?" 

"That's  as  may  appear." 

"Whaur's  yer  warrant?" 

"There." 

"Lay.  't  doon  o'  the  table,  an'  gang 
back  to  the  door,  till  I  get  a  sklent  at 
it,"  said  Malcolm.  "Ye're  an  honest 
man,  WuU,  but  I  wadna  lippen  a  snuff- 
mull  'at  had  mair  nor  ae  pinch  intill  't 
wi'  yon  cooard  cratur  ahin'  ye." 

He  was  afraid  of  the  possible  conse- 
quences of  his  grandfather's  indignation. 

The  gamekeeper  did  at  once  as  he 
was  requested,  evidently  both  amused 
with  the  bearing  of  the  two  men  and  ad- 
miring it.  Having  glanced  at  the  paper, 
Malcolm  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  whis- 
pering a  word  to  his  grandfather,  walked 
away  with  his  captors. 

As  they  went  to  the  House,  Bykes 
was  full  of  threats,  of  which  he  sought 
to  enhance  the  awfulness  by  the  indef- 
initeness ;  but  Will  told  Malcolm  as 
much  as  he  knew  of  the  matter — name- 
ly, that  the  head -gamekeeper,  having 
lost  some  dozen  of  his  sitting  pheasants, 
had  enjoined  a  strict  watch ;  and  that 
Bykes,  having  caught  sight  of  Malcolm 
in  the  very  act  of  getting  over  the  wall, 
had  gone  and  given  information  against 
him. 


MALCOLM. 


67 


No  one  about  the  premises  except 
Bykes  would  have  been  capable  of  har- 
boring suspicion  of  Malcolm ;  and  the 
head-gamekeeper  had  not  the  slightest ; 
but,  knowing  that  his  lordship  found 
little  enough  to  amuse  him,  and  antici- 
pating some  laughter  from  the  confront- 
ing of  two  such  opposite  characters,  he 
had  gone  to  the  marquis  with  Bykes's 
report ;  and  this  was  the  result.  His 
lordship  was  not  a  magistrate,  and  the 
so-called  warrant  was  merely  a  some- 
what, sternly-worded  expression  of  his 
desire  that  Malcolm  should  appear  and 
answer  to  the  charge. 

The  accused  was  led  into  a  vaulted 
chamber  opening  from  the  hall — a  gen- 
uine portion,  to  judge  from  its  deep  low- 
arched  recesses,  the  emergence  of  trun- 
cated portions  of  two  or  three  groins, 
and  the  thickness  of  its  walls,  of  the  old 
monastery.  Close  by  the  door  ascended 
a  right-angled  modein  staircase. 

Lord  Lossie  entered,  and  took  his  seat 
in  a  great  chair  in  one  of  the  recesses. 

"So,  you  young  jackanapes!"  he  said, 
half  angry  and  half  amused,  "you  de- 
cline to  come,  when  I  send  for  you,  with- 
out a  magistrate's  warrant,  forsooth  !  It 
looks  bad  to  begin  with,  I  must  say  !" 

"  Yer  lordship  wad  never  hae  had  me 
come  at  sic  a  summons  as  that  cankert 
ted  [toad)  Johnny  Bykes  broucht  me. 
Gien  yt  had  but  hard  him  !  He  spak  as 
gien  he  had  been  sent  to  fess  me  to  yer 
lordship  by  the  scruff  o'  the  neck,  an'  I 
didna  believe  yer  lordship  wad  do  sic  a 
thing.  Ony  gait,  I  wasna  gauin'  to  stan' 
that.  Ye  wad  hae  thocht  him  a  cornel  at 
the  sma'est,  an'  me  a  wheen  heerin'-guts. 
But  it  wad  hae  garred  ye  lauch,  my  lord, 
to  see  hoo  the  body  ran  whan  my  blin' 
gran'father — he  canna  bide  onybody  in- 
terferin'  wi'  me — made  at  him  wi'  his 
braidswoord  !" 

"  Ye  leein'  rascal !"  cried  Bykes ;  " — me 
feared  at  sic  an  auld  spidder,  'at  has- 
na  breath  eneuch  to  fill  the  bag  o'  's 
pipes!" 

"Caw  canny,  Johnny  Bykes.  Gien  ye 
say  an  ill  word  o'  my  gran'father,  I  s' 
gie  your  neck  a  thraw — an'  that  the 
meenute  we're  oot  o'  's  lordship's  pres- 
ence." 


"Threits!  my  lord,"  said  the  gate- 
keeper, appealing. 

"And  well  merited,"  returned  his  lord- 
ship.— "Well,  then,"  he  went  on,  again 
addressing  Malcolm,  "what  have  you  to 
say  for  yourself  in  regard  to  stealing  my 
brood-pheasants  ?" 

"Maister  MacPherson,"  said  Malcolm, 
with  an  inclination  of  his  head  toward 
the  gamekeeper,  "  micht  ha'  fun'  a  fitter 
neuk  to  fling  that  dirt  intill.  'Deed,  my 
lord,  it's  sae  ridic'lous,  it  hardly  angers 
me.  A  man  'at  can  hae  a'  the  fish  i' 
the  haill  ocean  for  the  takin*  o'  them, 
to  be  sic  a  sneck-drawin'  contemptible 
vratch  as  tak  yer  lordship's  bonny  hen- 
craturs  frae  their  chuckles — no  to  men- 
tion the  sin  o'  't ! — it's  past  an  honest 
man's  denyin',  my  lord.  An'  Maister 
MacPherson  kens  better,  for  luik  at  him 
lauchin'  in  's  ain  sleeve." 

"Well,  we've  no  proof  of  it,"  said  the 
marquis;  "but  what  do  you  say  to  the 
charge  of  trespass  ?' 

"The  policies  hae  aye  been  open  to 
honest  fowk,  my  lord." 

"  Then  where  was  the  necessity  for 
getting  in  over  the  wall  ?" 

"I  beg  yer  pardon,  my  lord:  ye  hae 
nae  proof  agen  me  o'  that  aither." 

"  Daur  ye  tell  me,"  cried  Bykes,  re- 
covering himself,  "  'at  I  didna  see  ye  wi' 
my  ain  twa  een,  loup  the  dyke  aneth 
the  temple — ay,  an'  something  flutterin' 
unco  like  bird-wings  i'  yer  han'  ?" 

"  Oot  or  in,  Johnny  Bykes  ?" 

"  Ow  !  oot." 

"  I  did  loup  the  dyke,  my  lord,  but  it 
was  oot,  no  2>z." 

"How  did  you  get  in  then?"  asked  the 
marquis. 

"  I  gat  in,  my  lord — "  began  Malcolm, 
and  ceased. 

"How  did  you  get  in?"  repeated  the 
marquis. 

"Ow!  there's  mony  w'ys  o' winnin'  in, 
my  lord.  The  last  time  I  cam  in  but 
ane,  it  was  'maist  ower  the  carcass  0' 
Johnny  there,  wha  wad  fain  hae  hauden 
me  oot,  only  he  hadna  my  blin'  daddy 
ahint  him  to  ile  's  jints." 

"An'  dinna  ye  ca'  t/iat  brakin'  in?" 
said  Bykes. 

"Na;  there  was  naething  to  brak,  "cep 


68 


MALCOLM. 


it  had  been  your  banes,  Johnny ;  an'  that 
wad  hae  been  a  peety — they're  sae  guid 
for  rinnin'  wi'," 

"You  had  no  right  to  enter  against  the 
will  of  my  gatekeeper,"  said  his  lord- 
ship.    "What  is  a  gatekeeper  for  ?" 

"  I  had  a  richt,  my  lord,  sae  lang  's  I 
was  upo'  my  leddy's  business." 

"And  what  was  my  lady's  business, 
pray?"  questioned  the  marquis. 

"  I  faun'  a  buik  upo'  the  links,  my  lord, 
which  was  like  to  be  hers,  wi'  the  twa 
beasts  'at  stans  at  yer  lordship's  door  in- 
side the  brod  [board)  o'  't.  An'  sae  it 
turned  oot  to  be  whan  I  took  it  up  to  the 
Hoose.  There's  the  half-croon  she  gae 
me." 

Little  did  Malcolm  think  where  the 
daintiest  of  pearly  ears  were  listening, 
and  the  brightest  of  blue  eyes  looking 
down,  half  in  merriment,  a  quarter  in 
anxiety,  and  the  remaining  quarter  in 
interest !  On  a  landing  half  way  up  the 
stair,  stood  Lady  Florimel,  peeping  over 
the  balusters,  afraid  to  fix  her  eyes  upon 
him  lest  she  should  make  him  look  up. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  dare  say!"  acquiesced  the 
marquis;  "but,"  he  persisted,  "what  I 
want  to  know  is,  how  you  got  in  that 
time.  You  seem  to  have  some  reluctance 
to  answer  the  question." 

"Weel,  I  hev,  my  lord." 

"  Then  I  must  insist  on  your  doing 
so." 

"Weel,  I  jist  winna,  my  lord.  It  was 
a'  straucht  foret  an'  fair ;  an'  gien  yer 
lordship  war  i'  my  place,  ye  wadna  say 
mair  yersel'." 

"  He's  been  after  one  of  the  girls  about 
the  place,"  whispered  the  marquis  to  the 
gamekeeper. 

"Speir  at  him,  my  lord,  gien  't  please 
yer  lordship,  what  it  was  he  hed  in  's 
han'  whan  he  lap  the  park-wa',"  said 
Bykes. 

"Gien  't  be  a'  ane  till 's  lordship,"  said 
Malcolm,  without  looking  at  Bykes,  "it 
wad  be  better  no  to  speir,  for  it  gangs 
sair  agen  me  to  refeese  him." 

"  1  should  like  to  know,"  said  the  mar- 
quis. 

"Ye  maun  trust  me,  my  lord,  that  I 
was  efter  no  ill.  I  gie  ye  my  word  for 
that,  my  lord." 


"  But  how  am  I  to  know  what  your 
word  is  worth  ?"  returned  Lord  Lossie, 
well  pleased  with  the  dignity  of  the 
youth's  behavior. 

"To  ken  what  a  body's  word  's  worth 
ye  maun  trust  him  first,  my  lord.  It's 
no  muckle  trust  I  want  o'  ye :  it  comes 
but  to  this — that  I  hae  rizzons,  guid  to 
me,  an'  no  ill  to  you  gien  ye  kent  them, 
for  not  answerin'  yer  lordship's  questons. 
I'm  no  denyin'  a  word  'at  Johnny  Bykes 
says.  I  never  hard  the  cratur  ca'd  a 
leear.  He's  but  a  cantankerous  argle- 
barglous  body — no  fit  to  be  a  gatekeep- 
er, 'cep  it  was  up  upo'  the  Binn-side, 
whaur  'maist  naebody  gangs  oot  or  in. 
He  wad  maybe  be  safter-hertit  till  a  fel- 
low-cratur  syne." 

"Would  you  have  him  let  in  all  the 
tramps  in  the  countiy  .''"  said  the  mar- 
quis. 

"  De'il  ane  o'  them,  my  lord ;  but  I 
wad  hae  him  no  trouble  the  likes  o'  me 
'at  fesses  the  fish  to  yer  lordship's  brak- 
wast :  sic  's  no  like  to  be  efter  mischeef." 

"There  is  some  glimmer  of  sense  in 
what  you  say,"  returned  his  lordship. 
"  But  you  know  it  won't  do  to  let  any- 
body that  pleases  get  over  the  park-walls. 
Why  didn't  you  go  out  at  the  gate  ?" 

"The  burn  was  atween  nie  an'  hit,  an' 
it's  a  lang  road  roon'." 

"Well,  I  must  lay  some  penalty  upon 
you,  to  deter  others,"  said  the  marquis. 

"  Verra  weel,  my  lord.  Sae  lang  's  it's 
fair,  I  s'  bide  it  ohn  grutten  {^without 
weeping).'' 

"It  sha'n't  be  too  hard.  It's  just  this 
— to  give  John  Bykes  the  thrashing  he 
deserves,  as  soon  as  you're  out  of  sight 
of  the  House." 

"  Na,  na,  my  lord ;  I  canna  do  that," 
said  Malcolm. 

"So  you're  afraid  of  him,  after  all !" 

"  Feared  at  Johnnie  Bykes,  my  lord ! 
Ha!  ha!" 

"You  threatened  him  a  minute  ago, 
and  now,  when  I  give  you  leave  to  thrash 
him,  you  decline  the  honor!" 

"The  disgrace,  my  lord.  He's  an 
aulder  man,  an'  no  abune  Jialf  the  size. 
But  fegs !  gien  he  says  anithcr  word  agen 
my  gran'father,  I  will  gie  's  neck  a  bit 
thraw," 


MALCOLM. 


69 


"Well,  well,  be  off  with  you  both," 
said  the  marquis,  rising. 

No  one  heard  the  rustle  of  Lady  Flo- 
rimel's  dress  as  she  sped  up  the  stair, 
thinking  within  herself  how  very  odd  it 
was  to  have  a  secret  with  a  fisherman  ; 
for  a  secret  it  was,  seeing  the  reticence 
of  Malcolm  had  been  a  relief  to  her, 
when  she  shrunk  from  what  seemed  the 
imminent  mention  of  her  name  in  the 
affair  before  the  servants.  She  had  even 
felt  a  touch  of  mingled  admiration  and 
gratitude  when  she  found  what  a  faithful 
squire  he  was — capable  of  an  absolute 
obstinacy  indeed,  where  she  was  con- 
cerned. For  her  own  sake  as  well  as 
his  she  was  glad  that  he  had  got  off  so 
well,  for  otherwise  she  would  have  felt 
bound  to  tell  her  father  the  whole  story, 
and  she  was  not  at  all  so  sure  as  Mal- 
colm that  he  would  have  been  satisfied 
with  his  reasons,  and  would  not  have 
been  indignant  with  the  fellow  for  pre- 
suming even  to  be  silent  concerning  his 
daughter.  Indeed,  Lady  Florimel  her- 
self felt  somewhat  irritated  with  him,  as 
having  brought  her  into  the  awkward 
situation  of  sharing  a  secret  with  a  youth 
of  his  position. 


CHAPTER  XVITI. 
THE   QUARREL. 

For  a  few  days  the  weather  was  dull 
and  unsettled,  with  cold  flaws  and  an 
occasional  sprinkle  of  rain.  But  after 
came  a  still  gray  morning,  warm  and 
hopeful,  and  ere  noon  the  sun  broke  out, 
the  mists  vanished,  and  the  day  was 
glorious  in  blue  and  gold.  Malcolm  had 
been  to  Scaurnose,  to  see  his  friend 
Joseph  Mair,  and  was  descending  the 
steep  path  down  the  side  of  the  prom- 
ontory, on  his  way  home,  when  his  keen 
eye  caught  sight  of  a  form  on  the  slope 
of  the  dune  which  could  hardly  be  other 
than  that  of  Lady  Florimel.  She  did 
not  lift  her  eyes  until  he  came  quite  near, 
and  then  only  to  drop  them  again  with 
no  more  recognition  than  if  he  had  been 
any  other  of  the  fishermen.  Already 
more  than  half  inclined  to  pick  a  quarrel 
with  him,  she  fancied  that,  presuming 


upon  their  very  commonplace  adventure 
and  its  resulting  secret,  he  aproached  her 
with  an  assurance  he  had  never  mani- 
fested before,  and  her  head  was  bent 
motionless  over  her  book  when  he  stood 
and  addressed  her. 

"My  leddy,"  he  began,  with  his  bon- 
net by  his  knee. 

"Well?"  she  returned,  without  even 
lifting  her  eyes,  for,  with  the  inherited 
privilege  of  her  rank,  she  could  be  inso- 
lent with  coolness,  and  call  it  to  mind 
without  remorse. 

"  I  houp  the  bit  buikie  wasna  muckle 
the  waur,  my  leddy,"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  of  no  consequence,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"Gien  it  war  mine,  I  wadna  think 
sae,"  he  returned,  eyeing  her  anxiously. 
"  — Here's  yer  leddyship's  pocket-nep- 
kin,"  he  went  on.  "  I  hae  keepit  it  ready 
rowed  up,  ever  sin'  my  daddy  washed  it 
oot.  It's  no  ill  dune  for  a  blin'  man,  as 
ye'll  see,  an'  I  ironed  it  mysel'  as  weel  's 
I  cud." 

As  he  spoke  he  unfolded  a  piece  of 
brown  paper,  disclosing  a  little  parcel  in 
a  cover  of  immaculate  post,  which  he 
humbly  offered  her, 

Taking  it  slowly  from  his  hand,  she 
laid  it  on  the  ground  beside  her  with  a 
stiff  "  Thank  yon''  and  a  second  drop- 
ping of  her  eyes  that  seemed  meant  to 
close  the  interview. 

"I  doobt  my  company  's  no  welcome 
the  day,  my  leddy,"  said  Malcolm  with 
trembling  voice  ;  "but  there's  ae  thing  I 
maun  refar  till.  Whan  I  took  hame  yer 
leddyship's  bulk  the  ither  day,  ye  sent  me 
a  half  a  croon  by  the  han'  o'  yer  servan' 
lass.  Afore  her  I  wasna  gaein'  to  disal- 
loo  onything  ye  pleased  wi'  regaird  to 
me ;  an'  I  thocht  wi'  mysel'  it  was  may- 
be necessar'  for  yer  leddyship's  dignity 
an'  the  luik  o'  things — " 

"  How  dare  you  hint  at  any  under- 
standing between  you  and  me  ?"  exclaim- 
ed the  girl  in  cold  anger. 

"  Lord,  mem !  what  hev  I  said  to  fcss 
sic  a  fire-flaucht  oot  o'  yer  bonny  een  ? 
I  thocht  ye  only  did  it  'cause  ye  wad  na 
like  to  luik  shabby  afore  the  lass — no 
giein'  onything  to  the  lad  'at  brocht  ye 
yer  ain — an'  lippened  to  me  to  unnerstan' 


70 


MALCOLM. 


'at  ye  did  it  but  for  the  luik  o'  the  thing. 
as  I  say." 

He  had  taken  the  coin  from  his  pocket, 
and  had  been  busy  while  he  spoke  rub- 
bing it  in  a  handful  of  sand,  so  that  it 
was  bright  as  new  when  he  now  offered 
it. 

"You  are  quite  mistaken,"  she  rejoin- 
ed, ungraciously.  "You  insult  me  by 
supposing  I  meant  you  to  return  it." 

"Div  ye  think  I  cud  bide  to  be  paid 
for  a  turn  till  a  neebor,  lat  alane  the  lift- 
in'  o'  a  bulk  till  a  leddy  ?"  said  Malcolm 
with  keen  mortification.  "  That  wad  be 
to  despise  mysel'  frae  keel  to  truck.  I 
like  to  be  paid  for  my  wark,  an'  I  like  to 
be  paid  well  ;  but  no  a  plack  by  sic-like 
[beyo7td such)  sail  stick  to  my  loof  (/«/;//). 
It  can  be  no  offence  to  gie  ye  back  yer 
half-croon,  my  leddy." 

And  again  he  offered  the  coin. 

"I  don't  in  the  least  see  why,  on  your 
own  principles,  you  shouldn't  take  the 
money,"  said  the  girl,  with  more  than 
the  coldness  of  an  uninterested  umpire. 
"You  worked  for  it,  I'm  sure— first  ac- 
companying me  home  in  such  a  storm, 
and  then  finding  the  book  and  bringing 
it  back  all  the  way  to  the  house  !" 

"'Deed,  my  leddy,  sic  a  doctrine  wad 
tak  a'  grace  oot  o'  the  earth !  What  wad 
this  life  be  worth  gien  a'  was  to  be  peyed 
for?  I  wad  cut  my  throat  afore  I  wad 
bide  in  sic  a  warl'. — Tak  yer  half-croon, 
my  leddy,"  he  concluded,  in  a  tone  of 
entreaty. 

But  the  energetic  outburst  was  suf- 
ficing, in  such  her  mood,  only  to  the  dis- 
gust of  Lady  Florimel. 

"Do  anything  with  the  money  you 
please  ;  only  go  away,  and  don't  plague 
me  about  it,"  she  said  freezingly. 

"What  can  I  du  wi'  what  1  wadna  pass 
tlirou'  my  fingers?"  said  Malcolm  with 
the  patience  of  deep  disappointment. 

"Give  it  to  some  poor  creature:  you 
know  some  one  who  would  be  glad  of  it, 
I  dare  say." 

"I  ken  mony  ane,  my  leddy,  wham  it 
wad  weel  become  yer  ain  bonny  han'  to 
gie  't  till;  but  I'm  no  gaein'  to  tak' 
credit  fer  a  Iceberality  that  wad  ill  be- 
come me." 

"You  can  tell  how  you  earned  it." 


"And  profess  mysel'  disgraced  by 
takin'  a  reward  frae  a  born  leddy  for 
what  I  wad  hae  dune  for  ony  beggar 
wife  i'  the  Ian' !     Na,  na,  my  leddy." 

"Your  services  are  certainly  flattering, 
when  you  put  me  on  a  level  with  any 
beggar  in  the  country  !" 

"In  regaird  o'  sic  service,  my  leddy :  ye 
ken  weel  eneuch  what  I  mean.  Obleege 
me  by  takin'  back  yer  siller." 

"How  dare  you  ask  me  to  take  back 
what  I  once  gave  ?" 

"Ye  cudna  hae  kent  what  ye  was  doin' 
whan  ye  gae  't,  my  leddy.  Tak  it  back, 
an  tak  a  hunnerweicht  afif  o'  my  hert." 

He  actually  mentioned  his  heart ! — was 
it  to  be  borne  by  a  girl  in  Lady  Florimel's 
mood  ? 

"I  beg  you  will  not  annoy  me,"  she 
said,  muffling  her  anger  in  folds  of  dis- 
tance, and  again  sought  her  book. 

Malcolm  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
then  turned  his  face  toward  the  sea,  and 
for  another  moment  stood  silent.  Lady 
Florimel  glanced  up,  but  Malcolm  was 
unaware  of  her  movement.  He  lifted 
his  hand,  and  looked  at  the  half-crown 
gleaming  on  his  palm ;  then,  with  a 
sudden  poise  of  his  body,  and  a  sudden 
fierce  action  of  his  arm,  he  sent  the  coin, 
swift  with  his  heart's  repudiation,  across 
the  sands  into  the  tide.  Ere  it  struck 
the  water,  he  had  turned,  and,  with  long 
stride  but  low-bent  head,  walked  away. 
A  pang  shot  to  Lady  Florimel's  heart. 

"Malcolm  !"  she  cried. 

He  turned  instantly,  came  slowly  back, 
and  stood  erect  and  silent  before  her. 

She  must  say  something.  Her  eye  fell 
on  the  little  parcel  beside  her,  and  she 
spoke  the  first  thought  that  came. 

"Will  you  take  this?"  she  said,  and 
offered  him  the  handkerchief. 

In  a  dazed  way  he  put  out  his  hand 
and  took  it,  staring  at  it  as  if  he  did  not 
know  what  it  was. 

"It's  some  sair!"  he  said  at  length, 
wit'n  a  motion  of  his  hands  as  if  to  grasp 
his  head  between  them.  "Ye  winna  tak 
even  the  washin'  o'  a  pocket-nepkin  frae 
me,  an*  ye  wad  gar  me  tak  a  haill  half- 
croon  frae  yersel' !  Mem,  ye're  a  gran' 
leddy  an'  a  bonny;  an  ye  hae  turns 
aboot  yc,  gien  'twar  but  the  set  o'  yer 


MALCOLM. 


held,  'at  micht  gar  an  angel  lat  fa'  what 
he  was  camin',  but  afore  I  wad  affront 
ane  that  wantit  naething  o'  me  but  gude 
will,  I  wad — I  wad — raither  be  the  fisher- 
lad  that  I  am." 

A  weak-kneed  peroration,  truly;  but 
Malcom  was  overburdened  at  last.  He 
laid  the  little  parcel  on  the  sand  at 
her  feet,  almost  reverentially,  and  again 
turned.     But  Lady  Florimel  spoke  again. 

"It  is  you  who  are  affronting  me  now," 
she  said  gently.  "When  a  lady  gives  her 
handkerchief  to  a  gentleman,  it  is  com- 
monly received  as  a  very  great  favor  in- 
deed." 

"Gien  I  hae  made  a  mistak,  my  leddy, 
I  micht  weel  mak  it,  no  bein'  a  gentle- 
man, and  no  bein'  used  to  the  traitment 
o'  ane.  But  I  doobt  gien  a  gentleman 
wad  ha'  surmised  what  ye  was  efter  wi' 
yer  neepkin,  gien  ye  had  offert  him  half 
a  croon  first." 

"Oh  yes,  he  would — perfectly!"  said 
Florimel  with  an  air  of  offence. 

"Then,  my  leddy,  for  the  first  time  i' 
my  life,  I  wish  I  had  been  born  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"Then  I  certainly  wouldn't  have  given 
it  you,"  said  Florimel  with  perversity. 

"What  for  no,  my  leddy?  I  dinna 
unnerstan'  ye  again.  There  maun  be  an 
unco  differ  atween  's  I" 

"  Because  a  gentleman  would  have 
presumed  on  such  a  favor." 

"I'm  glaidder  nor  ever  'at  I  wasna 
born  ane,"  said  Malcolm,  and,  slowly 
stooping,  he  lifted  the  handkerchief; 
"  an'  I  was  aye  glaid  o'  that,  my  leddy, 
'cause  gien  I  had  been,  I  wad  hae  been 
luikin'  doon  upo'  workin'  men  like  my- 
sel'  as  gien  they  warna  freely  o'  the  same 
flesh  an'  blude.  But  I  beg  yer  leddy- 
ship's  pardon  for  takin'  ye  up  amiss. 
An'  sae  lang's  I  live,  I'll  regaird  this  as 
ane  o'  her  fedders  'at  the  angel  moutit 
as  she  sat  by  the  bored  craig.  An'  whan 
I'm  deid,  I'll  hae  't  laid  upo'  my  face, 
an'  syne,  maybe,  I  may  get  a  sicht  o'  ye 
as  I  pass.     Guid-day,  my  leddy." 

"  Good-day,"  she  returned  kindly.  "  I 
wish  my  father  would  let  me  have  a  row 
in  your  boat." 

"  It's  at  yer  service  whan  ye  please,  my 
leddy,"  said  Malcolm. 


One  who  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
shining  yet  solemn  eyes  of  the  youth,  as 
he  walked  home,  would  wonder  no  long- 
er that  he  should  talk  as  he  did — so  se- 
dately, yet  so  poetically — so  long-wind- 
edly, if  you  like,  yet  so  sensibly — even 
wisely. 

Lady  Florimel  lay  on  the  sand,  and 
sought  again  to  read  the  Faerie  Quee7ie. 
But  for  the  last  day  or  two  she  had  been 
getting  tired  of  it,  and  now  the  forms 
that  entered  by  her  eyes  dropped  half 
their  substance  and  all  their  sense  in  the 
porch,  and  thronged  her  brain  with  the 
mere  phantoms  of  things,  with  words 
that  came  and  went  and  were  nothing. 
Abandoning  the  han-est  of  chaff,  her 
eyes  rose  and  looked  out  upon  the  sea. 
Never,  even  from  tropical  shore,  was 
richer-hued  ocean  beheld.  Gorgeous  in 
purple  and  green,  in  shadowy  blue  and 
flashing  gold,  it  seemed  to  Malcolm,  as 
if  at  any  moment  the  ever  new-born  An- 
adyomene  might  lift  her  shining  head 
from  the  wandering  floor,  and  float  away 
in  her  pearly  lustre  to  gladden  the  regions 
where  the  glaciers  glide  seaward  in  irre- 
sistible silence,  there  to  give  birth  to  the 
icebergs  in  tumult  and  thunderous  up- 
roar. But  Lady  Florimel  felt  merely  the 
loneliness.  One  deserted  boat  lay  on 
the  long  sand,  like  the  bereft  and  useless 
half  of  a  double  shell.  Without  show 
of  life  the  moveless  cliffs  lengthened  far 
into  a  sea  where  neither  white  sail  deep- 
ened the  purple  and  gold,  nor  red  one 
enriched  it  with  a  color  it  could  not  itself 
produce.  Neither  hope  nor  aspiration 
awoke  in  her  heart  at  the  sight.  Was 
she  beginning  to  be  tired  of  her  com- 
panionless  liberty  ?  Had  the  long  stan- 
zas, bound  by  so  many  interwoven  links 
of  rhyme,  ending  in  long  Alexandrines, 
the  long  cantos,  the  lingering  sweetness 
long  drawn  out  through  so  many  unend- 
ed  books,  begun  to  wearj^  her  at  last  ? 
Had  even  a  quarrel  with  a  fisher-lad 
been  a  little  pastime  to  her  ?  and  did  she 
now  wish  she  had  detained  him  a  little 
longer  ?  Could  she  take  any  interest  in 
him  beyond  such  as  she  took  in  Demon, 
her  father's  dog,  or  Brazenose,  his  favor- 
ite horse  ? 

Whatever  might  be  her  thoughts  or 


72 


MALCOLM. 


feelings  at  this  moment,  it  remained  a 
fact,  that  Florimel  Colonsay,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  marquis,  and  Malcolm,  the 
grandson  of  a  blind  piper,  were  woman 
and  man — and  the  man  the  finer  of  the 
two  this  time. 

As  Malcolm  passed  on  his  way  one  of 
the  three  or  four  solitary  rocks  which 
rose  from  the  sand,  the  skeleton  rem- 
nants of  large  masses  worn  down  by 
wind,  wave  and  weather,  he  heard  his 
own  name  uttered  by  an  unpleasant 
voice,  and  followed  by  a  more  unpleas- 
ant laugh. 

He  knew  both  the  voice  and  the  laugh, 
and,  turning,  saw  Mrs.  Catanach,  seated, 
apparently  busy  with  her  knitting,  in  the 
shade  of  the  rock. 

^"Weel?"  he  said  curtly. 

"  Weel ! — Set  ye  up! — Wha's  yon  ye 
was  play-actin'  wi'  oot  yonner?" 

"Wha  telled  ye  to  speir.  Mistress  Cat- 
anach ?" 

"Ay,  ay,  laad !  Ye'll  be  abune  speyk- 
in'  till  an  auld  wife  efter  coUoguin'  wi'  a 
yoong  ane,  an'  sic  a  ane !  Isna  she 
iDonny,  Malkie  ?  Isna  hers  a  winsome 
shape  an'  a  lauchin'  ee  ?  Didna  she 
draw  ye  on,  an'  luik  i'  the  hawk's-een  o' 
ye,  an'  lay  herself  oot  afore  ye,  an' — ?" 

"She  did  naething  o'  the  sort,  ye  ill- 
tongued  wuman !"  said  Malcolm  in  anger. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !"  trumpeted  Mrs.  Catanach. 
"  Ill-tongued,  am  1  ?     An'  what  neist?" 

"  111  -  dcedit,"  returned  Malcolm — 
"  whan  ye  flang  my  bonny  salmon-troot 
till  yer  oogly  deevil  o'  a  dog." 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!  lU-deedit,  am  I  ?  I 
s'  no  forget  thae  bonny  names  !  Maybe 
yer  lordship  wad  alloo  me  the  leeberty 
o'  speirin'  anither  question  at  ye,  Ma'- 
colm  MacPhail  ?" 

"Ye  may  speir  'at  ye  like,  sae  lang  's 
ye  canna  gar  me  stan'  to  hearken.  Guid- 
day  to  ye,  Mistress  Catanach.  Yer  com- 
pany was  nane  o'  my  seekin' :  I  may 
lea'  't  whan  I  like." 

"Uinna  ye  be  ower  sure  o'  that,"  she 
called  after  him  venomously. 

But  Malcolm  turned  his  head  no  more. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight,  Mrs. 
Catanach  rose,  ascended  the  dune,  and 
propelled  her  rotundity  along  the  yield- 
ing top  of  it.     When  she  aiTived  within 


speaking  distance  of  Lady  Florimel,  who 
lay  lost  in  her  dreary  regard  of  sand  and 
sea,  she  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  con- 
templating her. 

Suddenly,  almost  by  Lady  Florimel's 
side,  as  if  he  had  risen  from  the  sand, 
stood  the  form  of  the  mad  laird. 

"1  dinna  ken  whaur  I  come  frae,"  he 
said. 

Lady  Florimel  started,  half  rose,  and 
seeing  the  dwarf  so  near,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  her  a  repulsive-looking  wo- 
man staring  at  her,  sprung  to  her  feet 
and  fled.  The  same  instant  the  mad 
laird,  catching  sight  of  Mrs.  Catanach, 
gave  a  cry  of  misery,  thrust  his  fingers 
in  his  ears,  darted  down  the  other  side 
of  the  dune,  and  sped  along  the  shore. 
Mrs.  Catanach  shook  with  laughter.  "  I 
hae  skailled  {^dispersed)  the  bonny  doos !" 
she  said.  Then  she  called  aloud  after 
the  flying  girl, — 

"Myleddy!     My  bonny  leddy  !" 

Florimel  paid  no  heed,  but  ran  straight 
for  the  door  of  the  tunnel,  and  vanished. 
Thence  leisurely  climbing  to  the  temple 
of  the  winds,  she  looked  down  from  a 
height  of  safety  upon  the  shore  and  the 
retreating  figure  of  Mrs.  Catanach.  Seat- 
ing herself  by  the  pedestal  of  the  trump- 
et-blowing Wind,  she  assayed  her  read- 
ing again,  but  was  again  startled — this 
time  by  a  rough  salute  from  Demon. 
Presently  her  father  appeared,  and  Lady 
Florimel  felt  something  like  a  pang  of 
relief  at  being  found  there,  and  not  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  dune  making  it 
up  with  Malcolm. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
DUNCAN'S     PIPES. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  events  last  nar- 
rated, a  footman  in  the  marquis's  livery 
entered  the  Seaton,  snuffing  with  em- 
phasized discomposure  the  air  of  the  vil- 
lage, all-ignorant  of  the  risk  ho  ran  in 
thus  openly  manifesting  his  feelings  ;  for 
the  women  at  least  were  good  enough 
citizens  to  resent  any  indignity  offered 
their  town.  As  vengeance  would  have 
it,  Meg  Partan  was  the  first  of  whom, 
with    supercilious    airs    and    "clippit" 


MALCOLM. 


n 


tongue,  he  requested  to  know  where  a 
certain  blind  man,  who  played  on  an  in- 
strument called  the  bagpipes,  lived. 

"Spit  i'  yer  loof  an'  caw  [search)  for 
him,"  she  answered — a  reply  of  which 
he  understood  the  tone  and  one  disagree- 
able word. 

With  reddeiiing  cheek  he  informed  her 
that  he  came  on  his  lord's  business. 

"I  dinna  doobt  it,"  she  retorted;  "ye 
luik  sic-like  as  rins  ither  fowk's  eeran's." 

"  I  should  be  obliged  if  you  would  in- 
form me  where  the  man  lives,"  returned 
the  lackey — with  polite  words  in  super- 
cilious tones. 

"What  d'  ye  want  wi'  hitn,  honest 
man  ?"  grimly  questioned  the  Partaness, 
the  epithet  referring  to  Duncan,  and  not 
the  questioner. 

"That  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  in- 
forming himself,"  he  replied. 

"Weel,  ye  can  hae  the  honor  o'  in- 
formin'  yersel'  whaur  he  bides,"  she  re- 
joined, and  turned  away  from  her  open 
door. 

All  were  not  so  rude  as  she,  however, 
for  he  found  at  length  a  little  girl  willing 
to  show  him  the  way. 

The  style  in  which  his  message  was 
delivered  was  probably  modified  by  the 
fact  that  he  found  Malcolm  seated  with 
his  grandfather  at  their  evening  meal  of 
water-brose  and  butter ;  for  he  had  been 
present  when  Malcolm  was  brought  be- 
fore the  marquis  by  Bykes,  and  had  in 
some  measure  comprehended  the  nature 
of  the  youth  :  it  was  in  politest  phrase, 
and  therefore  entirely  to  Duncan's  satis- 
faction in  regard  to  the  manner  as  well 
as  matter  of  the  message,  that  he  re- 
quested Mr.  Duncan  MacPhail's  attend- 
ance on  the  marquis  the  following  even- 
ing at  six  o'clock,  to  give  his  lordship 
and  some  distinguished  visitors  the  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  him  play  on  the  bagpipes 
during  dessert.  To  this  summons  the 
old  man  returned  stately  and  courteous 
reply,  couched  in  the  best  English,  he 
could  command,  which,  although  con- 
siderably distorted  by  Gaelic  pronuncia- 
tion and  idioms,  was  yet  sufficiently  in- 
telligible to  the  messenger,  who  carried 
home  the  substance  for  the  satisfaction 
of  his  master,  and  what  he  could  of  the 


form  for  the  amusement  of  his  fellow- 
servants. 

Duncan,  although  he  received  it  with 
perfect  calmness,  was  yet  overjoyed  at 
the  invitation.  He  had  performed  once 
or  twice  before  the  late  marquis,  and 
having  ever  since  assumed  the  style  of 
Piper  to  the  Marquis  of  Lossie,  now  re- 
garded the  summons  as  confirmation  in 
the  office.  The  moment  the  sound  of 
the  messenger's  departing  footsteps  died 
away,  he  caught  up  his  pipes  from  the 
corner,  where,  like  a  pet  cat,  they  lay  on 
a  bit  of  carpet,  the  only  piece  in  the  cot- 
tage, spread  for  them  between  his  chair 
and  the  wall,  and,  though  cautiously 
mindful  of  its  age  and  proved  infirmity, 
filled  the  bag  full,  and  burst  into  such  a 
triumphant  onset  of  battle  that  all  the 
children  of  the  Seaton  were  in  a  few 
minutes  crowded  about  the  door.  He 
had  not  played  above  five  minutes,  how- 
ever, when  the  love  of  finery  natural  to 
the  Gael,  the  Gaul  and  the  Galatian  tri- 
umphed over  his  love  of  music,  and  he 
stopped  with  -an  abrupt  groan  of  the  in- 
strument to  request  Malcolm  to  get  him 
new  streamers.  Whatever  his  notions 
of  its  nature  might  be,  he  could  not  come 
of  the  Celtic  race  without  having  in  him 
somewhere  a  strong  faculty  for  color, 
and  no  doubt  his  fancy  regarding  it  was 
of  something  as  glorious  as  his  know- 
ledge of  it  must  have  been  vague.  At 
all  events,  he  not  only  knew  the  names 
of  the  colors  in  ordinary  use,  but  could 
describe  many  of  the  clan  tartans  with 
perfect  accuracy ;  and  he  now  gave  Mal- 
colm complete  instructions  as  to  the  hues 
of  the  ribbon  he  was  to  purchase.  As 
soon  as  he  had  started  on  the  important 
mission,  the  old  man  laid  aside  his  in- 
strument, and  taking  his  broadsword 
from  the  wall,  proceeded  with  the  aid  of 
brick-dust  and  lamp-oil,  to  furbish  hilt 
and  blade  with  the  utmost  care,  search- 
ing out  spot  after  spot  of  rust,  to  the 
smallest,  with  the  delicate  points  of  his 
great  bony  fingers.  Satisfied  at  length 
of  its  brightness,  he  requested  Malcolm, 
who  had  returned  long  before  the  opera- 
tion was  over,  to  bring  him  the  sheath, 
which,  for  fear  of  its  coming  to  pieces, 
so  old  and  crumbling  was  the  leather,  he 


74 


MALCOLM. 


kept  laid  up  in  the  drawer  with  his  spor- 
ran and  his  Sunday  coat.  His  next 
business,  for  he  would  not  commit  it  to 
Malcolm,  was  to  adorn  the  pipes  with 
the  new  streamers.  Asking  the  color  of 
each,  and  going  by  some  principle  of 
arrangement  known  only  to  himself,  he 
affixed  them,  one  after  the  other,  as  he 
judged  right,  shaking  and  drawing  out 
each  to  its  full  length  with  as  much  pride 
as  if  it  had  been  a  tone  instead  of  a  rib- 
bon. This  done,  he  resumed  his  play- 
ing, and  continued  it,  notwithstanding 
the  remonstrances  of  his  grandson,  until 
bedtime. 

That  night  he  slept  but  little,  and  as 
the  day  went  on  grew  more  and  more 
excited.  Scarcely  had  he  swallowed  his 
twelve  o'clock  dinner  oi  sowetis  and  oat- 
cake, when  he  wanted  to  go  and  dress 
himself  for  his  approaching  visit.  Mal- 
colm induced  him,  however,  to  lie  down 
a  while  and  hear  him  play,  and  suc- 
ceeded, strange  as  it  may  seem  with 
such  an  instrument,  in  lulling  him  to 
sleep.  But  he  had  not  slept  more  than 
five  minutes  when  he  sprang  from  the 
bed,  wide  awake,  crying, 

"My  poy,  Malcolm!  my  son!  you  haf 
let  her  sleep  in ;  and  ta  creat  peoples  will 
pe  impatient  for  her  music,  and  cursing 
her  in  teir  hearts!" 

Nothing  would  quiet  him  but  the  im- 
mediate commencement  of  the  process 
of  dressing,  the  result  of  which  was,  as 
I  have  said,  even  pathetic,  from  its  inter- 
mixture of  shabbiness  and  finery.  The 
dangling  brass-capped  tails  of  his  sporran 
in  front,  the  silver-mounted  dirk  on  one 
side,  with  its  hilt  of  black  oak  carved  into 
an  eagle's  head,  and  the  steel  basket  of 
his  broadsword  gleaming  at  the  other ;  his 
great  shoulder-brooch  of  rudely  chased 
brass  ;  the  pipes  with  their  withered  bag 
and  gaudy  streamers ;  the  faded  kilt, 
oiled  and  soiled ;  the  stockings  darned 
in  twenty  places  by  the  hands  of  the 
termagant  Meg  Partan ;  the  brogues 
patched  and  patched  until  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  tell  a  spot  of  the  original 
leather;  the  round  blue  bonnet  grown 
gray  with  wind  and  weather;  the  belts 
that  looked  like  old  harness  ready  to 
yield  at  a  pull ;   his   skene   dhu  stick- 


ing out  grim  and  black  beside  a  knee 
like  a  lean  knuckle : — all  combined  to 
form  a  picture  ludicrous  to  a  vulgar  na- 
ture, but  gently  pitiful  to  the  lover  of 
his  kind.  He  looked  like  a  half-mould- 
ered warrior,  waked  from  beneath  an 
ancient  cairn,  to  walk  about  in  a  world 
other  than  he  took  it  to  be.  Malcolm, 
in  his  commonplace  Sunday  suit,  served 
as  a  foil  to  his  picturesque  grandfather ; 
to  whose  oft-reiterated  desire  that  he 
would  wear  the  highland  dress,  he  had 
hitherto  returned  no  other  answer  than 
a  humorous  representation  of  the  differ- 
ent remarks  with  which  the  neighbors 
would  encounter  such  a  solecism. 

The  whole  Seaton  turned  out  to  see 
them  start.  Men,  women  and  children 
lined  the  fronts  and  gables  of  the  houses 
they  must  pass  on  their  way  ;  for  every- 
body knew  where  they  were  going,  and 
wished  them  good  luck.  As  if  he  had 
been  a  great  bard  with  a  henchman  of 
his  own,  Duncan  strode  along  in  front, 
and  Malcolm  followed,  carrying  the 
pipes,  and  regarding  his  grandfather 
with  a  mingled  pride  and  compassion 
lovelyto  see.  But  as  soon  as  they  were 
beyond  the  village  the  old  man  took  the 
young  one's  arm,  not  to  guide  him,  for 
that  was  needless,  but  to  stay  his  steps  a 
little,  for  when  dressed  he  would,  as  I 
have  said,  carry  no  staff;  and  thus  they 
entered  the  nearest  gate  leading  to  the 
grounds.  Bykes  saw  them  and  scoffed, 
but  with  discretion,  and  kept  out  of  their 
way. 

When  they  reached  the  House,  they 
were  taken  to  the  servants'  hall,  where 
refreshments  were  offered  them.  The 
old  man  ate  sparingly,  saying  he  wanted 
all  the  room  for  his  breath,  but  swallow- 
ed a  glass  of  whisky  with  readiness ;  for, 
although  he  never  spent  a  farthing  on  it, 
he  had  yet  a  highlander's  respect  for 
whisky,  and  seldom  refused  a  glass  when 
offered  him.  On  this  occasion,  besides, 
anxious  to  do  himself  credit  as  a  piper, 
he  was  well  pleased  to  add  a  little  fuel 
to  the  failing  fires  of  old  age ;  and  the 
summons  to  the  dining-room  being  in 
his  view  long  delayed,  he  had,  before 
they  left  the  hall,  taken  a  second  glass. 

They  were  led  along  endless  passages, 


MALCOLM. 


75 


up  a  winding  stone  stair,  across  a  lobby, 
and  through  room  after  room. 

"  It  will  pe  some  glamour,  sure,  Mal- 
colm !"  said  Duncan  in  a  whisper  as 
they  went. 

Requested  at  length  to  seat  themselves 
in  an  ante-room,  the  air  of  which  was 
filled  with  the  sounds  and  odors  of  the 
neighboring  feast,  they  waited  again 
through  what  seemed  to  the  impatient 
Duncan  an  hour  of  slow  vacuity ;  but  at 
last  they  were  conducted  into  the  dining- 
room.  Following  their  guide,  Malcolm 
led  the  old  man  to  the  place  prepared 
for  him  at  the  upper  part  of  the  room, 
where  the  floor  was  raised  a  step  or  two. 

Duncan  would,  I  fancy,  even  unpro- 
tected by  his  blindness,  have  strode  un- 
abashed into  the  very  halls  of  heaven. 
As  he  entered  there  was  a  hush,  for  his 
poverty-stricken  age  and  dignity  told  for 
one  brief  moment ;  then  the  buzz  and 
laughter  recommenced,  an  occasional 
oath  emphasizing  itself  in  the  confused 
noise  of  the  talk,  the  gurgle  of  wine,  the 
ring  of  glass  and  the  chink  of  china. 

In  Malcolm's  vision,  dazzled  and  be- 
wildered at  first,  things  soon  began  to 
arrange  themselves.  The  walls  of  the 
room  receded  to  their  proper  distance, 
and  he  saw  that  they  were  covered  with 
pictures  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  gor- 
geously attired ;  the  ceiling  rose  and  set- 
tled into  the  dim  show  of  a  sky,  amongst 
the  clouds  of  which  the  shapes  of  very 
solid  women  and  children  disported 
themselves ;  while  about  the  glittering 
table,  lighted  by  silver  candelabra  with 
many  branches,  he  distinguished  the 
gayly- dressed  company,  round  which, 
like  huge  ill-painted  butterflies,  the  liv- 
eried footmen  hovered.  His  eyes  soon 
found  the  lovely  face  of  Lady  Florimel, 
but  after  the  first  glance  he  dared  hardly 
look  again.  Whether  its  radiance  had 
any  smallest  source  in  the  pleasure  of 
appearing  like  a  goddess  in  the  eyes  of 
her  humble  servant,  I  dare  not  say,  but 
more  lucent  she  could  hardly  have  ap- 
peared had  she  been  the  princess  in  a 
fairy  tale,  about  to  marry  her  much- 
thwarted  prince.  She  wore  far  too  many 
jewels  for  one  so  young,  for  her  father 
had  given  her  all  that  had  belonged  to 


her  mother,  as  well  as  some  family  dia- 
monds, and  her  inexperience  knew  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  wear  them. 
The  diamonds  flashed  and  sparkled  and 
glowed  on  a  white  rather  than  fair  neck, 
which,  being  very  much  uncollared,  daz- 
zled Malcolm  far  more  than  the  jewels. 
Such  a  form  of  enhanced  loveliness,  re- 
flected for  the  first  time  in  the  pure  mir- 
ror of  a  high-toned  manhood,  may  well 
be  to  such  a  youth  as  that  of  an  angel 
with  whom  he  has  henceforth  to  wrestle 
in  deadly  agony  until  the  final  dawn  ; 
for  lofty  condition  and  gorgeous  circum- 
stance, while  combining  to  raise  a  wo- 
man to  an  ideal  height,  ill  suffice  to  lift 
her  beyond  love,  or  shield  the  lowliest 
man  from  the  arrows  of  her  radiation  : 
they  leave  her  human  still.  She  was 
talking  and  laughing  with  a  young  man 
of  weak  military  aspect,  whose  eyes 
gazed  unshrinking  on  her  beauty. 

The  guests  were  not  numerous  :  a  cer- 
tain bold-faced  countess,  the  fire  in  whose 
eyes  had  begun  to  tarnish,  and  the  nat- 
ural lines  of  whose  figure  were  vanishing 
in  expansion ;  the  soldier,  her  nephew, 
a  wasted  elegance ;  a  long,  lean  man, 
who  dawdled  with  what  he  ate,  and 
drank  as  if  his  bones  thirsted ;  an  elder- 
ly, broad,  red-faced,  bull-necked  baron 
of  the  Hanoverian  type ;  and  two  neigh- 
boring lairds  and  their  wives,  ordinary, 
and  well  pleased  to  be  at  the  marquis's 
table. 

Although  the  waiting  were  as  many 
as  the  waited  upon,  Malcolm,  who  was 
keen-eyed  and  had  a  passion  for  service 
— a  thing  unintelligible  to  the  common 
mind — soon  spied  an  opportunity  of 
making  himself  useful.  Seeing  one  of 
the  men,  suddenly  called  away,  set  down 
a  dish  of  fruit  just  as  the  countess  was 
expecting  it,  he  jumped  up,  almost  in- 
voluntarily, and  handed  it  to  her.  Once 
in  the  current  of  things,  Malcolm  would 
not  readily  make  for  the  shore  of  inac- 
tivity: he  finished  the  round  of  the  table 
with  the  dish,  while  the  men  looked 
indignant,  and  the  marquis  eyed  him 
queerly. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged,  however, 
Duncan,  either  that  his  poor  stock  of 
patience  was  now  utterly  exhausted,  or 


76 

that  he  fancied  a  signal  given,  com- 
pressed of  a  sudden  his  full-blown  wait- 
ing bag,  and  blasted  forth  such  a  wild 
howl  of  a  pibroch,  that  more  than  one 
of  the  ladies  gave  a  cry  and  half  started 
from  their  chairs.  The  marquis  burst 
out  laughing,  but  gave  orders  to  stop 
him — a  thing  not  to  be  effected  in  a  mo- 
ment, for  Duncan  was  in  full  tornado, 
with  the  avenues  of  hearing,  both  cor- 
poreal and  mental,  blocked  by  his  own 
darling  utterance.  Understanding  at 
length,  he  ceased  with  the  air  and  al- 
most the  carriage  of  a  suddenly  checked 
horse,  looking  half  startled,  half  angry, 
his  cheeks  puffed,  his  nostrils  expanded, 
his  head  thrown  back,  the  port-vent  still 
in  his  mouth,  the  blown  bag  under  his 
arm,  and  his  fingers  on  the  chanter — on 
the  fret  to  dash  forward  again  with  re- 
doubled energy.  But  slowly  the  strained 
muscles  relaxed,  he  let  the  tube  fall  from 
his  lips,  and  the  bag  descended  to  his 
lap.  "A  man  forbid,"  he  heard  the  la- 
dies rise  and  leave  the  room,  and  not 
until  the  gentlemen  sat  down  again  to 
their  wine  was  there  any  demand  for  the 
exercise  of  his  art. 

Now,  whether  what  followed  had  been 
prearranged,  and  old  Duncan  invited 
for  the  express  purpese  of  carrying  it 
out,  or  whether  it  was  conceived  and 
executed  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
which  seems  less  likely,  I  cannot  tell, 
but  the  turn  things  now  took  would  be 
hard  to  believe,  were  they  dated  in  the 
present  generation.  Some  of  my  elder 
readers,  however,  will,  from  their  own 
knowledge  of  similar  actions,  grant  like- 
lihood enough  to  my  record. 

While  the  old  man  was  piping  as 
bravely  as  his  lingering  mortification 
would  permit,  the  marquis  interrupted 
his  music  to  make  him  drink  a  large 
glass  of  sherry ;  after  which  he  requested 
him  to  play  his  loudest,  that  the  gentle- 
men might  hear  what  his  pipes  could  do. 
At  the  same  time  he  sent  Malcolm  with 
a  message  to  the  butler  about  some  par- 
ticular wine  he  wanted.  Malcolm  went 
more  than  willingly,  but  lost  a  good 
deal  of  time  from  not  knowing  his  way 
through  the  house.  When  he  returned 
he  found  things  frightfully  changed. 


MALCOLM. 


As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  room, 
and  while  the  poor  old  man  was  blow- 
ing his  hardest,  in  the  fancy  of  rejoicing 
his  hearers  with  the  glorious  music  of  the 
highland  hills,  one  of  the  company — it 
was  never  known  which,  for  each  memly 
accused  the  other — took  a  penknife,  and 
going  softly  behind  him,  ran  the  sharp 
blade  into  the  bag,  and  made  a  great 
slit,  so  that  the  wind  at  once  rushed  out, 
arid  the  tune  ceased  without  sob  or  wail. 
Not  a  laugh  betrayed  the  cause  of  the 
catastrophe :  in  silent  enjoyment  the  con- 
spirators sat  watching  his  movements. 
For  one  moment  Duncan  was  so  as- 
tounded that  he  could  not  think ;  the 
next  he  laid  the  instrument  across  his 
knees,  and  began  feeling  for  the  cause 
of  the  sudden  collapse.  Tears  had 
gathered  in  the  eyes  that  were  of  no  use 
but  to  weep  withal,  and  v/ere  slowly 
dropping. 

"She  wass  afrait,  my  lort  and  chentle- 
mans,"  he  said,  with  a  quavering  voice, 
"tat  her  pag  will  pe  near  her  latter  end ; 
put  she  pelieved  she  would  pe  living  pe- 
yond  her  nainsel,  my  chentlemans." 

He  ceased  abruptly,  for  his  fingers  had 
found  the  wound,  and  were  prosecuting 
an  inquiry :  they  ran  along  the  smooth 
edges  of  the  cut,  and  detected  treachery. 
He  gave  a  ciy  like  that  of  a  wounded, 
animal,  flung  his  pipes  from  him,  and 
sprang  to  his  feet,  but  forgetting  a  step 
below  him,  staggered  forward  a  few  paces 
and  fell  heavily.  That  instant  Malcolm 
entered  the  room.  He  hurried  in  con- 
sternation to  his  assistance.  When  he 
had  helped  him  up  and  seated  him  again 
on  the  steps,  the  old  man  laid  his  head 
on  his  boy's  bosom,  threw  his  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  wept  aloud. 

"Malcolm,  my  son,"  he  sobbed,  "Tun- 
can  is  wronged  in  ta  halls  of  ta  stran- 
cher ;  tey  '11  haf  stapped  his  pest  friend 
to  ta  heart,  and  och  hone !  och  hone ! 
she  '11  pe  aall  too  plint  to  take  fen- 
cheance.  Malcolm,  son  of  heroes,  traw 
ta  claymore  of  ta  pard,  and  fall  upon  ta 
traitors.  She'll  pe  singing  you  ta  onset, 
for  ta  pibroch  is  no  more." 

His  quavering  voice  rose  that  instant 
in  a  fierce  though  feeble  chant,  and  his 
hand  flew  to  the  hilt  of  his  weapon. 


MALCOLM. 


77 


Malcolm,  perceiving  from  the  looks 
of  the  men  that  things  were  as  his  grand- 
father had  divined,  spoke  indignantly  : 

"  Ye  oucht  to  tak  shame  to  ca'  yersel's 
gentlefowk,  an'  play  a  puir  blin'  man, 
wha  was  doin'  his  best  to  please  ye,  sic 
an  ill-faured  trick." 

As  he  spoke  they  made  various  signs 
to  him  not  to  interfere,  but  Malcolm  paid 
them  no  heed,  and  turned  to  his  grand- 
father, eager  to  persuade  him  to  go  home. 
They  had  no  intention  of  letting  him  off 
yet,  however.  Acquainted  —  probably 
through  his  gamekeeper,  who  laid  him 
self  out  to  amuse  his  master — with  the 
piper's  peculiar  antipathies,  Lord  Lossie 
now  took  up  the  game. 

"  It  was  too  bad  of  you,  Campbell," 
he  said,  "  to  play  the  good  old  man  such 
a  dog's  trick." 

At  the  word  Campbell  the  piper  shook 
off  his  grandson,  and  sprang  once  more 
to  his  feet,  his  head  thrown  back,  and 
eveiy  inch  of  his  body  trembling  with 
rage. 

"  She  might  haf  known,"  he  screamed, 
half  choking,  "that  a  cursed  tog  of  a 
Cawmill  was  in  it !" 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  swaying  in 
every  direction,  as  if  the  spirit  within 
him  doubted  whether  to  cast  his  old  body 
on  the  earth  in  contempt  of  its  helpless- 
ness, or  to  fling  it  headlong  on  his  foes. 
For  that  one  moment  silence  filled  the 
room. 

"You  needn't  attempt  to  deny  it;  it 
really  was  too  bad  of  you,  Glenlyon," 
said  the  marquis. 

A  howl  of  fury  burst  from  Duncan's 
laboring  bosom.  His  broadsword  flash- 
ed from  its  sheath,  and  brokenly  pant- 
ing out  the  words,  "  Clenlyon  !  Ta  creat 
defil !  Haf  I  peen  trinking  with  ta  hell- 
hount,  Clenlyon  ?"  —  he  would  have  run 
a  Malay  muck  through  the  room  with 
his  huge  weapon.  But  he  was  already 
struggling  in  the  arms  of  his  grandson, 
who  succeeded  at  length  in  forcing  from 
his  bony  grasp  the  hilt  of  the  terrible  clay- 
more. But  as  Duncan  yielded  his  weap- 
on, Malcolm  lost  his  hold  on  him.  He 
darted  away,  caught  his  dirk — a  blade 
of  unusual  length — from  its  sheath,  and 
shot  in  the  direction  of  the  last  word  he 


had  heard.  Malcolm  dropped  the  sword 
and  sprung  after  him. 

"  Gif  her  ta  fiUain  by  ta  troat,"  scream- 
ed the  old  man.  "  She  '11  stap  his  pag  ! 
She'll  cut  his  chanter  in  two  !  She'll  pe 
toing  it !  Who  put  ta  creat-cran'son  of 
Inverriggen  should  pe  cutting  ta  troat  of 
ta  tog  Clenlyon .''" 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  running  wildly 
about  the  room,  brandishing  his  weapon, 
knocking  over  chairs,  and  sweeping  bot- 
tles and  dishes  from  the  table.  The  clat- 
ter was  tremendous,  and  the  smile  had 
faded  from  the  faces  of  the  men  who  had 
provoked  the  disturbance.  The  military 
youth  looked  scared ;  the  Hanoverian 
pig-cheeks  were  the  color  of  lead ;  the 
long  lean  man  was  laughing  like  a  skel- 
eton ;  one  of  the  lairds  had  got  on  the 
sideboard,  and  the  other  was  making  for 
the  door  with  the  bell-rope  in  his  hand ; 
the  marquis,  though  he  retained  his  cool- 
ness, was  yet  looking  a  little  anxious ; 
the  butler  was  peeping  in  at  the  door, 
with  red  nose  and  pale  cheek-bones,  the 
handle  in  his  hand,  in  instant  readiness 
to  pop  out  again ;  while  Malcolm  was 
after  his  grandfather,  intent  upon  closing 
with  him.  The  old  man  had  just  made 
a  desperate  stab  at  nothing  half  across 
the  table,  and  was  about  to  repeat  it, 
when,  spying  danger  to  a  fine  dish,  Mal- 
colm reached  forward  to  save  it.  But 
the  dish  flew  in  splinters,  and  the  dirk 
passing  through  the  thick  of  Malcolm's 
hand,  pinned  it  to  the  table,  where  Dun- 
can, fancying  he  had  at  length  stabbed 
Glenlyon,  left  it  quivering. 

"Tere,  Clenlyon!"  he  said,  and  stood 
trembling  in  the  ebb  of  passion,  and 
murmuring  to  himself  something  in 
Gaelic. 

Meantime,  Malcolm  had  drawn  the 
dirk  from  the  table,  and  released  his 
hand.  The  blood  was  streaming  from 
it,  and  the  marquis  took  his  own  hand- 
kerchief to  bind  it  up ;  but  the  lad  in- 
dignantly refused  the  attention,  and  kept 
holding  the  wound  tight  with  his  left 
hand.  The  butler,  seeing  Duncan  stand 
quite  still,  ventured,  with  scared  counte- 
nance, to  approach  the  scene  of  destruc- 
tion. 

"Dinna  gang  near  him,"  cried  Mai- 


78 


MALCOLM. 


colm.  "He  has  his  skene  dhu  yet,  an' 
in  grips  that's  warst  ava." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  out  of  his 
mouth  when  the  black  knife  was  out  of 
Duncan's  stocking,  and  brandished  aloft 
in  his  shaking  fist. 

"Daddy!"  cried  Malcolm,  "ye  wad- 
na  kill  twa  Glenlyons  in  ae  day — wad 
ye?" 

"She  would,  my  son  Malcolm  ! — fifty 
of  ta  poars  in  one  preath !  Tey  are  ta 
children  of  wrath,  and  tey  haf  to  pe 
testructiont." 

"  For  an  auld  man  ye  hae  killed  enew 
for  ae  nicht,"  said  Malcolm,  and  gently 
took  the  knife  from  his  trembling  hand. 
"Ye  maun  come  hame  the  noo." 

"  Is  ta  tog  tead,  then  ?"  asked  Duncan 
eagerly. 

"Ow,  na;  he's  breathin'  yet,"  answer- 
ed Malcolm. 

"She'll  not  can  co  till  ta  tog  will  pe 
tead.     Ta  tog  may  want  more  killing." 

"What  a  horribje  savage!"  said  one 
of  the  lairds,  a  justice  of  the  peace. 
"He  ought  to  be  shut  up  in  a  mad- 
house." 

"Gien  ye  set  aboot  shuttin'  up,  sir,  or 
my  lord — I  kenna  whilk— ye'U  hae  to 
begin  nearer  hame,"  said  Malcolm  as 
he  stooped  to  pick  up  the  broadsword, 
and  so  complete  his  possession  of  the 
weapons.  "  An'  ye'U  please  to  haud  in 
min',  that  nane  here  is  an  injured  man 
but  my  gran'father  himsel'." 

"Hey!"  said  the  marquis;  "what  do 
you  make  of  all  my  dishes  ?" 

"  'Deed,  my  lord,  ye  may  comfort  yer- 
sel'  that  they  warna  dishes  wi'  harns 
[brains)  i'  them ;  for  sic  's  some  scarce 
i'  the  Hoose  o'  Lossie." 

"You're  a  long-tongued  rascal,"  said 
the  marquis. 

"A  lang  tongue  may  whiles  be  as 
canny  as  a  lang  spune,  my  lord  ;  an'  ye 
ken  what  that's  for?" 

The  marquis  burst  into  laughter. 

"What  do  you  make,  then,  of  that 
horrible  cut  in  your  own  hand?"  asked 
the  magistrate. 

"  I  mak  my  ain  lousiness  o'  't,"  an- 
swered Malcolm. 

While  this  colloquy  passed,  Duncan 
had  been  feeling  about  for  his  pipes  : 


having  found  them  he  clasped  them  to 
his  bosom  like  a  hurt  child. 

"Come  home,  come  home,"  he  said; 
"your  own  pard  has  refenched  you." 

Malcolm  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  away.  He  went  without  a  word, 
still  clasping  his  wounded  bagpipes  to 
his  bosom. 

"You'll  hear  from  me  in  the  morning, 
my  lad,"  said  the  marquis  in  a  kindly 
tone,  as  they  were  leaving  the  room. 

"  I  hae  no  wuss  to  hear  onything  mair 
o'  yer  lordship.  Ye  hae  dune  eneuch 
this  nicht,  my  lord,  to  make  ye  ashamed 
o'  yersel'  till  yer  dyin'  day — gien  ye  hed 
ony  pooer  o'  shame  left  in  ye." 

The  military  youth  muttered  some- 
thing about  insolence,  and  made  a  step 
toward  him.  Malcolm  quitted  his  grand- 
father, and  stepped  again  into  the  room. 

"Come  on,"  he  said. 

"No,  no,"  interposed  the  marquis. 
"Don't  you  see  the  lad  is  hurt  ?" 

"  Lat  him  come  on,"  said  Malcolm ; 
"  I  hae  a  soon'  han'.  Here,  my  lord,  tak 
the  wapons,  or  the  auld  man  '11  get  a  grip 
o'  them  again." 

"I  tell  you  «tf,"  shouted  Lord  Lossie. 
"  Fred,  get  out — will  you  ?" 

The  young  gentleman  turned  on  his 
heel,  and  Malcolm  led  his  grandfather 
from  the  house  without  further  molesta- 
tion. It  was  all  he  could  do,  however, 
to  get  him  home.  The  old  man's  strength 
was  utterly  gone.  His  knees  bent  trem- 
bling under  him,  and  the  arm  which  rest- 
ed on  his  grandson's  shook  as  with  an 
ague-fit.  Malcolm  was  glad  indeed  when 
at  length  he  had  him  safe  in  bed,  by 
which  time  his  hand  had  swollen  to  a 
great  size,  and  the  suffering  grown  severe. 

Thoroughly  exhausted  by  his  late  fierce 
emotions,  Duncan  soon  fell  into  a  trou- 
bled sleep,  whereupon  Malcolm  went  to 
Meg  Partan,  and  begged  her  to  watch 
beside  him  until  he  should  return,  in- 
forming her  of  the  way  his  grandfather 
had  been  treated,  and  adding  that  he 
had  gone  into  such  a  rage,  that  he  fear- 
ed he  would  be  ill  in  consequence ;  and 
if  he  should  be  unable  to  do  his  morn- 
ing's duty,  it  would  almost  break  \\va 
heart. 

"Eh!"  said  the  Partancss,  in  a  whis- 


MALCOLM. 


79 


per,  as  they  parted  at  Duncan's  door, 
"a  baad  temper  's  a  frichtsome  thing. 
I'm  sure  the  times  I  hae  telled  him  it 
wad  be  the  ruin  o'  'im  !" 

To  Malcolm's  gentle  knock  Miss 
Horn's  door  was  opened  by  Jean. 

"What  d'ye  wint  at  sic  an  oontimeous 
hoor,"  she  said,  "whan  honest  fowk's  a' 
i'  their  nichtcaips?" 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Horn,  gien  ye 
please,"  he  answered. 

"  I  s'  warran'  she'll  be  in  her  bed  an' 
snorin',"  said  Jean;  "but  I  s'  gang  an' 
see." 

Ere  she  went,  however,  Jean  saw  that 
the  kitchen  door  was  closed,  for,  whether 
she  belonged  to  the  class  "honest  folk  " 
or  not,  Mrs.  Catanach  was  in  Miss  Horn's 
kitchen,  and  not  in  her  nightcap. 

Jean  returned  presently  with  an  invi- 
tation for  Malcolm  to  walk  up  to  the 
parlor. 

"  I  hae  gotten  a  sma'  mishanter,  Miss 
Horn,"  he  said,  as  he  entered;  "an'  I 
thocht  I  cudna  du  better  than  come  to 
you,  'cause  ye  can  haud  yer  tongue,  an' 
that's  mair  nor  mony  ane  i'  the  port  o' 
Portlossle  can,  mem." 

The  compliment,  correct  in  fact  as 
well  as  honest  in  intent,  was  not  thrown 
away  on  Miss  Horn,  to  whom  it  was  the 
more  pleasing  that  she  could  regard  it 
as  a  just  tribute.  Malcolm  told  her  all 
the  storj^  rousing  thereby  a  mighty  in- 
dignation in  her  bosom,  a  great  fire  in 
her  hawk-nose,  and  a  succession  of  wild 
flashes  in  her  hawk-eyes ;  but  when  he 
showed  her  his  hand, 

"Lord,  Malcolm!"  she  cried;  "it's  a 
mercy  I  was  made  wantin'  feehn's,  or  I 
cudna  hae  bed  the  sicht.    My  puir  bairn !" 

Then  she  rushed  to  the  stair  and 
shouted — 

"Jean,  ye  limmer !  Jean  !  Fess  some 
het  watter,  an'  some  linen  cloots." 

"I  hae  nane  o'  naither,"  replied  Jean 
from  the  bottom  of  the  stair. 

"  Mak  up  the  fire  an  put  on  some  wat- 
ter direckly. — I  s'  fin'  some  clooties,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Malcolm,  " — gien  I 
sud  rive  the  tail  frae  my  best  Sunday 
sark." 

She  returned  with  rags  enough  for  a 
small  hospital,  and  until  the  grumbling 


Jean  brought  the  hot  water,  they  sat  and 
talked  in  the  glimmering  light  of  one 
long-beaked  tallow  candle. 

"  It's  a  terrible  hoose,  yon  o'  Lossie," 
said  Miss  Horn;  "and  there's  been  ter- 
rible things  dune  intill't.  The  auld  mar- 
kis  was  an  ill  man.  I  daurna  say  what 
he  wadna  hae  dune,  gien  half  the  tales 
be  true  'at  they  tell  o'  'im ;  an'  the  last 
ane  was  little  better.  This  ane  winna 
be  sae  ill,  but  it's  clear  'at  he's  tarred  wi' 
the  same  stick." 

"  I  dinna  think  he  means  onything 
muckle  amiss,"  agreed  Malcolm,  whose 
wrath  had  by  this  time  subsided  a  little, 
through  the  quieting  influences  of  Miss 
Horn's  sympathy.  "He's  mair  thoucht- 
less,  I  do  believe,  than  ill-contrived — an' 
a'  for  's  fun.  He  spak  unco  kin'-like  to 
me,  efterhin,  but  I  cudna  accep'  it,  ye 
see,  efter  the  w'y  he  had  saired  my  dad- 
dy. But  wadna  ye  hae  thought  he  was 
auld  eneuch  to  ken  better  by  this  time  ?" 

"An  auld  fule  's  the  warst  fule  ava',* 
said  Miss  Horn.  "But  nothing  o'  that 
kin',  be  't  as  mad  an'  pranksome  as  ever 
sic  ploy  could  be,  is  to  be  made  mention 
o'  aside  the  things  'at  was  mutit  [jnutter- 
ed)  o'  's  brither.  I  budena  come  ower 
them  till  a  young  laad  like  yersel'.  They 
war  never  said  straucht  oot,  min'  ye,  but 
jist  mintit  at,  like,  wi'  a  doon-draw  o'  the 
broos  an'  a  wee  side-shak'  o'  the  heid, 
as  gien  the  body  wad  say,  '  I  cud  tell  ye 
gien  I  daur.'  But  I  doobt  mysel'  gien 
onything  was  /&<?;?/,  though  muckle  was 
mair  nor  suspeckit.  An'  whaur  there  's 
reik,  there  maun  be  fire." 

As  she  spoke  she  was  doing  her  best, 
with  many  expressions  of  pity,  for  his 
hand.  When  she  had  bathed  and  bound 
it  up,  and  laid  it  in  a  sling,  he  wished  her 
good-night. 

Arrived  at  home,  he  found,  to  his  dis- 
may, that  things  had  not  been  going 
well.  Indeed,  while  yet  several  houses 
off,  he  had  heai'd  the  voices  of  the  Par- 
tan's  wife  and  his  grandfather  in  fierce 
dispute.  The  old  man  was  beside  him- 
self with  anxiety  about  Malcolm ;  and 
the  woman,  instead  of  soothing  him,  was 
opposing  everything  he  said,  and  irritat- 
ing him  frightfully.  The  moment  he 
entered,  each  opened  a  torrent  of  accu- 


8o 


MALCOLM. 


sations  against  the  other,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  Malcohn  prevailed  on  the 
woman  to  go  home.  The  presence  of 
his  boy  soon  calmed  the  old  man,  how- 
ever, and  he  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep — 
in  which  Malcolm,  who  sat  by  his  bed 
all  night,  heard  him,  at  intervals,  now 
lamenting  over  the  murdered  of  Glenco, 
now  exulting  in  a  stab  that  had  reached 
the  heart  of  Glenlyon,  and  now  bewail- 
ing his  ruined  bagpipes.  At  length  to- 
ward morning  he  grew  quieter,  and  Mal- 
colm fell  asleep  in  his  chair. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ADVANCES. 

When  he  woke,  Duncan  still  slept, 
and  Malcolm,  having  got  ready  some 
tea  for  his  grandfather's,  and  a  little 
brose  for  his  own  breakfast,  sat  down 
again  by  the  bedside,  and  awaited  the 
old  man's  waking. 

The  first  sign  of  it  that  reached  him 
was  the  feebly-uttered  question — 

"Will  ta  tog  be  tead,  Malcolm  ?" 

"As  sure  's  ye  stabbit  him,"  answered 
Malcolm. 

"  Then  she  '11  pe  getting  herself  ready," 
said  Duncan,  making  a  motion  to  rise. 

"What  for,  daddy.?" 

"For  ta  hanging,  my  son,"  answered 
Duncan  coolly. 

"Time  eneuch  for  that,  daddy,  whan 
they  sen'  to  tell  ye,"  returned  Malcolm, 
cautious  of  revealing  the  facts  of  the 
case. 

"Ferry  coot!"  said  Duncan,  and  fell 
asleep  again. 

In  a  little  while  he  woke  with  a  start. 

"She  '11  be  hafing  an  efil  tream,  my 
son  Malcolm,"  he  said;  "  —  or  it  was  '11 
pe  more  than  a  tream,  Cawmill  of 
Glenlyon,  God  curse  him !  came  to  her 
pcdsidc  ;  and  he  '11  say  to  her, —  '  Mac- 
Dhonuill,'  he  said,  for  pein'  a  tead  man 
he  would  pe  knowing  my  name, — '  Mac- 
Dhonuill,'  he  said,  '  what  tid  you  '11  pe 
meaning  py  turking  my  posterity  ?'  And 
she  answered  and  said  to  him,  '  I  pray  it 
had  been  yourself,  you  tamned  Glen- 
lyon.' And  he  said  to  me,  '  It  '11  pe  no 
coot  wishing  that ;  it  would  pe  toing  you 


no  coot  to  turk  me,  for  I'm  a  tead  man.' 
— 'And  a  tamned  man,'  says  herself, 
and  would  haf  taken  him  py  ta  troat, 
put  she  couldn't  mofe.  'Well,  I'm  hot 
so  sure  of  tat,'  says  he,  '  for  I  'fe  pecked 
all  teir  partons.' — 'And  tid  tey  gif  tern 
ta  you,  you  tog  ?'  says  herself. — '  Well, 
I'm  not  sure,'  says  he ;  '  anyhow,  I'm  not 
tamned  ferry  much  yet.' — '  She  '11  pe  much 
sorry  to  hear  it,'  says  herself.  And  she 
took  care  aalways  to  pe  calling  him  some 
paad  name,  so  tat  he  shouldn't  say  she 
'11  be  forgifing  him,  whatever  ta  rest  of 
tern  might  pe  toing.  '  Put  what  troubles 
me,'  says  he,  '  it  '11  not  pe  apout  myself 
at  aall.' — '  That  '11  pe  a  wonder,"  says 
her  nain  sel' :  '  and  what  may  it  pe  apout, 
you  cut-troat?' — '  It  '11  pe  apout  yourself,' 
says  he.  '  Apout  herself?' — '  Yes  ;  apout 
yourself,'  says  he.  '  I'm  sorry  for  you — 
for  ta  ting  tat's  to  be  tone  with  him  that 
killed  a  man  aal  pecaase  he  pore  my 
name,  and  he  wasn't  a  son  of  mine  at 
aall !  Tere  is  no  pot  in  hell  teep  enough 
to  put  him  in  !' — '  Then  they  must  make 
haste  and  tig  one,'  says  herself,  '  for  she 
'11  pe  hangt  in  a  tay  or  two,' — So  she  '11 
wake  up,  and  beholt  it  was  a  tream  !" 

'  An'  no  sic  an  ill  dream  efter  a',  dad- 
dy !"  said  Malcolm. 

"Not  an  efil  dream,  my  son,  when  it 
makes  her  aalmost  wish  that  she  hadn't 
peen  quite  killing  ta  tog  !  Last  night  she 
would  haf  made  a  puoy  of  his  skin  like 
any  other  tog's  skin,  and  to-day — no,  my 
son,  it  wass  a  ferry  efil  tream.  And  to 
be  tolt  tat  ta  creat  tefil,  Glenlyon  herself, 
was  not  ferry  much  tamned ! — it  wass  a 
ferry  efil  tream,  my  son." 

"Weel,  daddy — maybe  ye  '11  tak  it  for 
ill  news,  but  ye  killed  naebody." 

"Tid  she'll  not  trive  her  turk  into  ta 
tog?"  cried  Duncan  fiercely.  "  Och 
hone  !  och  hone  ! — Then  she  's  ashamed 
of  herself  for  efer,  when  she  might  have 
tone  it.     And  it  '11  hafe  to  pe  tone  yet !" 

He  paused  a  few  moments,  and  then 
resumed : 

"And  she  '11  not  pe  coing  to  be  hangt  ? 
— Maype  that  will  pe  pettcr,  for  you 
wouldn't  hafe  liket  to  see  your  ok  cran'- 
fathcr  to  pe  hangt,  Malcolm,  my  son. 
Not  that  she  would  hafe  minted  it  her- 
self in   such  a  coot  caause,  IMalcolml 


MALCOLM. 


8i 


Put  she  tidn't  pe  ferry  happy  after  she  tid 
think  she  had  tone  it,  for  you  see  he 
wasn't  ta  ferr)'  man  his  ownself,  and  tat 
must  pe  counted.  But  she  tid  kill  some- 
thing :  what  was  it,  Malcolm  ?" 

"Ye  sent  a  gran'  dish  fleein',"  an- 
swered Malcolm.  "  I  s'  warran'  it  cost 
a  poun',  to  jeedge  by  the  gowd  upo'  't." 

"She'll  hear  a  noise  of  preaking;  put 
she  tid  stap  something  soft." 

"Ye  stack  yer  durk  intill  my  lord's 
mahogany  table,"  said  Malcolm.  "It 
nott  [needed]  a  guid  rug  [pull)  to  haul 't 
oot." 

"Then  her  arm  has  not  lost  aal  its 
strength,  Malcolm  !  I  pray  ta  taple  had 
been  ta  rips  of  Clenlyon  !" 

"Ye  maunna  pray  nae  sic  prayers, 
daddy.  Min'  upo'  what  Glenlyon  said 
to  ye  last  nicht.  Glen  I  was  you  I  wadna 
hae  a  pot  howkit  express  for  mysel' — 
doon  yonner — i'  yon  place  'at  ye  dreamed 
aboot." 

"Well,  I'll  forgife  him  a  little,  Malcolm 
— not  ta  one  tat's  tead,  but  ta  one  tat 
tidn't  do  it,  you  know. — Put  how  will  she 
pe  forgifing  him  for  ripping  her  poor 
pag  ?  Och  hone  !  och  hone  !  No  more 
musics  for  her  tying  tays,  Malcolm  !  Och 
hone  !  och  hone !  I  shall  co  creeping  to 
ta  crafe  w^ith  no  loud  noises  to  defy  ta 
enemy.  Her  pipes  is  tumb  for  efer  and 
efer.     Och  hone  !  och  hone  !" 

The  lengthening  of  his  days  had  re- 
stored bitterness  to  his  loss. 

"  I'll  sune  set  the  bag  richt,  daddy. 
Or,  gien  I  canna  do  that,  we  '11  get  a 
new  ane.  Mony  a  pibroch  '11  come  skir- 
lin'  oot  o'  that  chanter  yet  er'  a  be  dune." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  uncere- 
monious entrance  of  the  same  footman 
who  had  brought  the  invitation.  He 
carried  a  magnificent  set  of  ebony  pipes, 
with  silver  mountings. 

"A  present  from  my  lord,  the  marquis," 
he  said  bumptiously,  almost  rudely,  and 
laid  them  on  the  table. 

"  Dinna  lay  them  there ;  tak  them  frae 
that,  or  I  '11  fling  them  at  yer  poothered 
wig,"  said  Malcolm. — "  It's  a  stan'  o' 
pipes,"  he  added,  "  an'  that  a  gran'  ane, 
daddy." 

"  Take  tem  away  !"  cried  the  old  man, 
in  a  voice  too  feeble  to  support  the  load 
6 


of  indignation  it  bore.  "She  '11  pe  tak- 
ing no  presents  from  marquis  or  tuke 
tat  would  pe  teceifing  old  Tuncan,  and 
making  him  trink  with  ta  cursed  Clen- 
lyon. Tell  ta  marquis  he  '11  pe  sending 
her  Cray  hairs  with  sonow  to  ta  crafe  ; 
for  she  '11  pe  tishonored  for  efer  and 
henceforth." 

Probably  pleased  to  be  the  bearer  of 
a  message  fraught  with  so  much  amuse- 
ment, the  man  departed  in  silence  with 
the  pipes. 

The  marquis,  although  the  joke  had 
threatened,  and  indeed  so  far  taken,  a 
serious  turn,  had  yet  been  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  its  success.  The  rage  of 
the  old  man  had  been  to  his  eyes  ludi- 
crous in  the  extreme,  and  the  anger  of 
the  young  one  so  manly  as  to  be  even 
picturesque.  He  had  even  made  a  re- 
solve, half  dreamy  and  of  altogether  im- 
probable execution,  to  do  something  for 
the  fisher  fellow. 

The  pipes  which  he  had  sent  as  a  so- 
latium to  Duncan  were  a  set  that  belong- 
ed to  the  house — ancient,  and  in  the  eyes 
of  either  connoisseur  or  antiquarian  ex- 
ceedingly valuable  ;  but  the  marquis  was 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  and  did 
not  in  the  least  mind  parting  with  them. 
As  little  did  he  doubt  a  propitiation 
through  their  means,  was  utterly  unpre- 
pared for  a  refusal  of  his  gift,  and  was 
nearly  as  much  perplexed  as  annoyed 
thereat. 

For  one  thing,  he  could  not  under- 
stand such  offence  taken  by  one  in  Dun- 
can's lowly  position ;  for  although  he 
had  plenty  of  highland  blood  in  his  own 
veins,  he  had  never  lived  in  the  High- 
lands, and  understood  nothing  of  the 
habits  or  feehngs  of  the  Gael.  What 
was  noble  in  him,  however,  did  feel 
somewhat  rebuked,  and  he  was  even  a 
little  sorry  at  having  raised  a  barrier  be- 
tween himself  and  the  manly  young 
fisherman,  to  whom  he  had  taken  a  sort 
of  liking  from  the  first. 

Of  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room,  to 
whom  he  had  recounted  the  vastly  amus- 
ing joke  with  all  the  graphic  delineation 
for  which  he  had  been  admired  at  court, 
none,  although  they  all  laughed,  had  ap- 
peared to  enjoy  the  bad  recital  thorough- 


82 


MALCOLM. 


ly,  except  the  bold-faced  countess.  Lady 
Florimel  regarded  the  affair  as  undigni- 
fied at  the  best,  was  sorry  for  the  old 
man,  who  must  be  mad,  she  thought,  and 
was  pleased  only  with  the  praises  of  her 
squire  of  low  degree.  The  wound  in  his 
hand  the  marcjuis  either  thought  too 
trifling  to  mention,  or  serious  enough  to 
have  clouded  the  clear  sky  of  frolic  un- 
der which  he  desired  the  whole  trans- 
action to  be  viewed. 

They  were  seated  at  their  late  break- 
fast when  the  lackey  passed  the  window 
on  his  return  from  his  unsuccessful  mis- 
sion, and  the  marquis  happened  to  see 
him,  carrying  the  rejected  pipes.  He 
sent  for  him,  and  heard  his  report,  then 
with  a  quick  nod  dismissed  him — his 
way  when  angry — and  sat  silent. 

"Wasn't  it  spirited  —  in  such  poor 
people  too  ?"  said  Lady  Florimel,  the 
color  rising  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
sparkling. 

"  It  was  damned  impudent,"  said  the 
marquis. 

"  I  think  it  was  damned  dignified," 
said  Lady  Florimel. 

The  marquis  stared.  The  visitors, 
after  a  momentary  silence,  burst  into  a 
great  laugh. 

"  I  wanted  to  see,"  said  Lady  Florimel 
calmly,  "whether  /couldn't  swear  if  I 
tried.  I  don't  think  it  tastes  nice.  I 
sha'n't  take  to  it,  I  think." 

"You'd  better  not  in  my  presence,  my 
lady,"  said  the  marquis,  his  eyes  spark- 
ling with  fun. 

"I  shall  certainly  not  do  it  out  of 
your  presence,  my  lord,"  she  returned. 
" — Now  I  think  of  it,"  she  went  on,  "I 
know  what  I  will  do :  every  time  you 
say  a  bad  word  in  my  presence,  I  shall 
say  it  after  you.  I  sha'n't  mind  who's 
there — parson  or  magistrate.  Now  you'll 
see." 

"You  will  get  into  the  habit  of  it." 

"  Except  you  get  out  of  the  habit  of  it 
first,  papa,"  said  the  girl,  laughing  mer- 
rily. 

"You  confounded  little  Amazon  !"  said 
her  father. 

"But  what's  to  be  done  about  those 
confounded  pipes  ?"  she  resumed.  "You 
can't  allow  such  people  to  serve  you  so ! 


Return  your  presents,  indeed  ! — Suppose 
I  undertake  the  business  ?" 

"By  all  means.     What  will  you  do  ?" 

"  Make  them  take  them,  of  course.  It 
would  be  quite  horrible  never  to  be  quits 
with  the  old  lunatic." 

"As  you  please,  puss." 

"  Then  you  put  yourself  in  my  hands, 
papa  ?" 

"  Yes ;  only  you  must  mind  what  you're 
about,  you  know." 

"That  I  will,  and  make  them  mind 
too,"  she  answered,  and  the  subject  was 
dropped. 

Lady  Florimel  counted  upon  her  in- 
fluence with  Malcolm,  and  his  again  with 
his  grandfather ;  but,  careful  of  her  dig- 
nity, she  would  not  make  direct  advances ; 
she  would  wait  an  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing to  him.  But,  although  she  visited 
the  sand-hill  almost  every  morning,  an 
opportunity  was  not  afforded  her.  Mean- 
while, the  state  of  Duncan's  bag  and  of 
Malcolm's  hand  forbidding,  neither  pipes 
were  played  nor  gun  was  fired  to  arouse 
marquis  or  burgess.  When  a  fortnight 
had  thus  passed.  Lady  Florimel  grew 
anxious  concerning  the  justification  of 
her  boast,  and  the  more  so  that  her  father 
seemed  to  avoid  all  reference  to  it. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
MEDIATION. 

At  length  it  was  clear  to  Lady  Flori- 
mel that  if  her  father  had  not  forgotten 
her  undertaking,  but  was,  as  she  be- 
lieved, expecting  from  her  some  able 
stroke  of  diplomacy,  it  was  high  time 
that  something  should  be  done  to  save 
her  credit.  Nor  did  she  forget  that  the 
unpiped  silence  of  the  royal  burgh  was 
the  memento  of  a  practical  joke  of  her 
father,  so  cruel  that  a  piper  would  not 
accept  the  handsome  propitiation  offered 
on  its  account  by  a  marquis. 

On  a  lovely  evening,  therefore,  the 
sunlight  lying  slant  on  waters  that  heaved 
and  sunk  in  a  flowing  tide,  now  catching 
the  gold  on  lifted  crests,  now  losing  it  in 
purple  hollows.  Lady  Florimel  found  her- 
self, for  the  first  time,  walking  from  the 
lower  gate  toward  the  Seaton.     Round- 


MALCOLM. 


83 


ing  the  west  end  of  the  village,  she  came 
to  the  sea  front,  where,  encountering  a 
group  of  children,  she  requested  to  be 
shown  the  blind  piper's  cottage.  Ten 
of  them  started  at  once  to  lead  the 
way,  and  she  was  presently  knocking  at 
the  half-open  door,  through  which  she 
could  not  help  seeing  the  two  at  their 
supper  of  dry  oat-cake  and  still  drier 
skim-milk  cheese,  with  a  jug  of  cold 
water  to  wash  it  down.  Neither,  having 
just  left  the  gentlemen  at  their  wine, 
could  she  help  feeling  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  dinner  just  over  at  the  House 
and  the  meal  she  now  beheld. 

At  the  sound  of  her  knock,  Malcolm, 
who  was  seated  with  his  back  to  the 
door,  rose  to  answer  the  appeal ; — the 
moment  he  saw  her,  the  blood  rose  from 
his  heart  to  his  cheek  in  similar  response. 
He  opened  the  door  wide,  and  in  low, 
something  tremulous  tones,  invited  her 
to  enter;  then  caught  up  a  chair,  dusted 
it  with  his  bonnet,  and  placed  it  for  her 
by  the  window,  where  a  red  ray  of  the 
setting  sun  fell  on  a  huge-flowered  hy- 
drangea. Her  quick  eye  caught  sight 
of  his  bound-up  hand. 

"How  have  you  hurt  your  hand?"  she 
asked  kindly. 

Malcolm  made  signs  that  prayed  for 
silence,  and  pointed  to  his  grandfather. 
But  it  was  too  late. 

"Hurt  your  hand,  Malcolm,  my  son  ?" 
cried  Duncan,  with  surprise  and  an.xiety 
mingled.    "  How  will  you  pe  doing  that  ?" 

"  Here's  a  bonny  yoong  leddy  come  to 
see  ye,  daddy,"  said  Malcolm,  seeking  to 
turn  the  question  aside. 

"She'll  pe  ferry  clad  to  see  ta  ponny 
young  laty,  and  she's  creatly  obleeched 
for  ta  honor  ;  put  if  ta  oonny  young  laty 
will  be  excusing  her — what'U  pe  hurting 
your  hand,  Malcolm?" 

"I'll  tell  ye  efterhin,  daddy.  This  is 
my  Leddy  Florimel,  frae  the  Hoose." 

"Hm!"  said  Duncan,  the  pain  of  his 
insult  keenly  renewed  by  the  mere  men- 
tion of  the  scene  of  it.  "Put,"  he  went 
on,  continuing  aloud  the  reflections  of  a 
moment  of  silence,  "she'll  pe  a  laty,  and 
it's  not  to  pe  laid  to  her  charch.  Sit 
town,  my  laty.  Ta  poor  place  is  your 
own." 


But  Lady  Florimel  was  already  seated, 
and  busy  in  her  mind  as  to  how  she 
could  best  enter  on  the  object  of  her 
visit.  The  piper  sat  silent,  revolving  a 
painful  suspicion  with  regard  to  Mal- 
colm's hurt. 

"  So  you  won't  forgive  my  father,  Mr. 
MacPhail  ?"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

"She  would  forgife  any  man  put  two 
men,"  he  answered,  " —  Clenlyon,  and 
ta  man,  whoefer  he  might  be,  who  would 
put  upon  her  ta  tiscrace  of  trinking  in 
his  company." 

"  But  you're  quite  mistaken,"  said  Lady 
Florimel,  in  a  pleading  tone.  "I  don't 
believe  my  father  knows  the  gentleman 
you  speak  of." 

"  Chentleman  !"  echoed  Duncan.  "  He 
is  a  tog ! — No,  he  is  no  tog  :  togs  is  coot. 
He  is  a  mongrel  of  a  fox  and  a  volf !" 

"  There  was  no  Campbell  at  our  table 
that  evening,"  persisted  Lady  Florimel. 

"  Then  who  told  Tuncan  MacPhail  a 
lie  ?" 

"  It  was  nothing  but  a  joke — indeed  !" 
said  the  girl,  beginning  to  feel  humiliated. 

"  It  wass  a  paad  choke,  and  might  have 
peen  ta  hanging  of  poor  Tuncan,"  said 
the  piper. 

Now  Lady  Florimel  had  heard  a  rumor 
of  some  one  having  been  hurt  in  the 
affair  of  the  joke,  and  her  quick  wits  in- 
stantly brought  that  and  Malcolm's  hand 
together. 

"It  might  have  been,"  she  said,  risk- 
ing a  miss  for  the  advantage.  "It  was 
well  that  you  hurt  nobody  but  your  own 
grandson." 

"Oh,  my  leddy!"  cried  Malcolm  with 
despairing  remonstrance;  "  —  an'  me 
haudin'  't  frae  him  a'  this  time  !  Ye  sud 
ha'  considert  an'  auld  man's  feelin's! 
He's  as  blin'  's  a  mole,  my  leddy  !" 

"His  feelings!"  retorted  the  girl  an- 
grily. "  He  ought  to  know  the  mischief 
he  does  in  his  foolish  rages." 

Duncan  had  risen,  and  was  now  feel- 
ing his  way  across  the  room.  Having 
reached  his  grandson,  he  laid  hold  of 
his  head  and  pressed  it  to  his  bosom. 

"Malcolm  !"  he  said,  in  a  broken  and 
hollow  voice,  not  to  be  recognized  as  his, 
"  Malcolm,  my  eagle  of  the  crag !  my 
hart  of  the  heather  !  was  it  yourself  she 


84 


MALCOLM. 


stapped  with  her  efil  hand,  my  son  ? 
Tid  she'll  pe  hurting  her  own  poy  ? — 
She'll  nefer  wear  turk  more.  Och  hone  ! 
Och  hone !" 

He  turned,  and,  with  bowed  head 
seeking  his  chair,  seated  himself  and 
wept. 

Lady  Florimel's  anger  vanished.  She 
was  by  his  side  in  a  moment,  with  her 
lovely  young  hand  on  the  bony  expanse 
of  his,  as  it  covered  his  face.  On  the 
other  side,  Malcolm  laid  his  lips  to  his 
ear,  and  whispered  with  soothing  ex- 
postulation— 

"  It's  maist  as  weel  's  ever,  daddy. 
It's  nane  the  waur.  It  was  but  a  bit  o' 
a  scart.     It's  nae  worth  twise  thinkin'  cv'." 

"  Ta  tui'k  went  trough  it,  Malcolm  !  It 
went  into  ta  table !  She  knows  now ! 
O  Malcolm !  Malcolm !  would  to  God 
she  had  killed  herself  pefore  she  hurted 
her  poy !" 

He  made  Malcolm  sit  down  beside 
him,  and  taking  the  wounded  hand  in 
both  of  his,  sunk  into  a  deep  silence, 
utterly  forgetful  of  the  presence  of  Lady 
Florimel,  who  retired  to  her  chair,  kept 
silence  also,  and  waited. 

"  It  was  not  a  coot  choke,"  he  mur- 
mured at  length,  "  upon  an  honest  man, 
and  might  pe  calling  herself  a  chentle- 
man.  A  rache  is  not  a  choke.  To  put 
her  in  a  rache  was  not  coot.  See  to  it. 
And  it  was  a  ferry  paad  choke,  too,  to 
make  a  pig  hole  in  her  poor  pag  !  Och 
hone !  och  hone  ! — Put  I'm  clad  Clenly- 
on  was  not  there,  for  she  was  too  plind 
to  kill  him." 

"  But  you  will  surely  forgive  my  father, 
when  he  wants  to  make  it  up !  Those 
pipes  have  been  in  the  family  for  hun- 
dreds of  years,"  said  Florimel. 

"  Her  own  pipes  has  peen  in  her  own 
family  for  five  or  six  chenerations  at 
least,"  said  Duncan.  " — And  she  was 
wondering  why  her  poy  tidn't  pe  mend- 
ing her  pag !  My  poor  poy  !  Och  hone ! 
Och  hone  !" 

"We'll  get  a  new  bag,  daddy,"  said 
Malcolm;  "  It's  been  lang  past  men'in' 
wi'  auld  age." 

"And  then  you  will  be  able  to  play 
together,"  urged  Lady  Florimel. 

Duncan's  resolution  was  visibly  shaken 


by  the  suggestion.  He  pondered  for  a 
while.  At  last  he  opened  his  mouth  sol- 
emnly, and  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  found  a  way  out  of  a  hitherto  im- 
passable jungle  of  difficulty  : 

"  If  her  lord  marquis  will  come  to 
Tuncan's  house,  and  say  to  Tuncan  it 
was  put  a  choke  and  he  is  sorry  for  it, 
then  Tuncan  will  shake  hands  with  ta 
marquis,  and  take  ta  pipes." 

A  smile  of  pleasure  lighted  up  Mal- 
colm's face  at  the  proud  proposal.  Lady 
Florimel  smiled  also,  but  with  amuse- 
ment. 

"Will  my  laty  take  Tuncan's  message 
to  my  lord  ta  marquis  ?"  asked  the  old 
man. 

Now  Lady  Florimel  had  inherited  her 
father's  joy  in  teasing ;  and  the  thought 
of  carrying  him  such  an  overture  was 
irresistibly  delightful. 

"I  will  take  it,"  she  said.  "But  what 
if  he  should  be  angry  ?" 

"  If  her  lord  pe  angry,  Tuncan  is  angry 
too,"  answered  the  piper. 

Malcolm  followed  Lady  Florimel  to 
the  door. 

"Put  it  as  saft  as  ye  can,  my  leddy," 
he  whispered.  "  I  canna  bide  to  anger 
fowk  mair  than  maun  be." 

"  I  shall  give  the  message  precisely  as 
your  grandfather  gave  it  to  me,"  said 
Florimel,  and  walked  away. 

While  they  sat  at  dinner  the  next  even- 
ing, she  told  her  father,  from  the  head 
of  the  table,  all  about  her  visit  to  the 
piper,  and  ended  with  the  announce- 
ment of  the  condition — word  for  word — 
on  which  the  old  man  would  consent  to 
a  reconciliation. 

Could  such  a  proposal  have  come  from 
an  equal  whom  he  had  insulted,  the  mar- 
quis would  hardly  have  waited  for  a  chal- 
lenge :  to  have  done  a  wrong  was  noth- 
ing ;  to  confess  it  would  be  a  disgrace. 
But  here  the  offended  party  was  of  such 
a  ludicrously  low  condition,  and  the  pro- 
posal therefore  so  ridiculous,  that  it  struck 
the  marquis  merely  as  a  yet  more  amusing 
prolongation  of  the  joke.  Hence  his  re- 
ception of  it  was  with  uproarious  laugh- 
ter, in  which  all  his  visitors  joined. 

"  Damn  the  old  wind-bag !"  said  the 
marquis. 


MALCOLM. 


S5 


*'  Damn  the  knife  that  made  the  mis- 
chief!" said  Lady  Florimel. 

When  the  merriment  had  somewhat 
subsided,  Lord  Meikleham,  the  youth  of 
soldierly  aspect,  would  have  proposed 
whipping  the  highland  beggar,  he  said, 
were  it  not  for  the  probability  the  old 
clothes-horse  would  fall  to  pieces ;  where- 
upon Lady  Florimel  recommended  him 
to  try  it  on  the  young  fisherman,  who 
might  possibly  hold  together ;  whereat 
the  young  lord  looked  both  mortified 
and  spiteful. 

I  believe  some  compunction,  perhaps 
even  admiration,  mingled  itself,  in  this 
case,  with  Lord  Lossie's  relish  of  an  odd 
and  amusing  situation,  and  that  he  was 
inclined  to  compliance  with  the  con- 
ditions of  atonement  partly  for  the  sake 
of  mollifying  the  wounded  spirit  of  the 
highlander.  He  turned  to  his  daughter 
and  said, — 

"Did  you  fix  an  hour,  Flory,  for  your 
poor  father  to  make  amende  honorable  ?" 

"No,  papa;  I  did  not  go  so  far  as 
that." 

The  marquis  kept  a  few  moments' 
grave  silence. 

"Your  lordship  is  surely  not  medi- 
tating such  a  solecism!"  said  Mr.  Mor- 
rison, the  justice-laird. 

"Indeed  I  am,"  said  the  marquis. 

"  It  would  be  too  great  a  condescen- 
sion," said  Mr.  Cavins  ;  "and  your  lord- 
ship will  permit  me  to  doubt  the  wisdom 
of  it.  These  fishermen  form  a  class  by 
themselves ;  they  are  a  rough  set  of  men, 
and  only  too  ready  to  despise  authority. 
You  will  not  only  injure  the  prestige  of 
your  rank,  my  lord,  but  expose  yourself 
to  endless  imposition." 

"The  spirit  moves  me,  and  we  are 
commanded  not  to  quench  the  spirit," 
rejoined  the  marquis  with  a  merry  laugh, 
little  thinking  that  he  was  actually  de- 
scribing what  was  going  on  in  him — that 
the  spirit  of  good  concerning  which  he 
jested  was  indeed  not  only  working  in 
him,  but  gaining  on  him,  in  his  resolu- 
tion of  that  moment. 

"Come,  Flory,"  said  the  marquis,  to 
whom  it  gave  a  distinct  pleasure  to  fly  in 
the  face  of  advice,  "we'll  go  at  once, 
and  have  it  over." 


So  they  set  out  together  for  the  Seaton, 
followed  by  the  bagpipes,  carried  by  the 
same  servant  as  before,  and  were  re- 
ceived by  the  overjoyed  Malcolm,  and 
ushered  into  his  grandfather's  presence. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  project- 
ed attitude  of  the  marquis,  the  moment 
he  stood  on  the  piper's  floor,  the  gcne- 
rosus,  that  is  the  gentleman,  in  him,  got 
the  upper  hand,  and  his  behavior  to  the 
old  man  was  not  polite  merely,  but  re- 
spectful. At  no  period  in  the  last  twenty 
years  had  he  been  so  nigh  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  as  he  was  now  when  making 
his  peace  with  the  blind  piper. 

When  Duncan  heard  his  voice,  he 
rose  with  dignity  and  made  a  stride  or 
two  toward  the  door,  stretching  forth  his 
long  arm  to  its  full  length,  and  spreading 
wide  his  great  hand  with  the  brown  palm 
upward. 

"  Her  nainsel  will  pe  proud  to  see  my 
lord  ta  marquis  under  her  roof,"  he  said. 

The  visit  itself  had  already  sufficed  to 
banish  all  resentment  from  his  soul. 

The  marquis  took  the  proffered  hand 
kindly. 

"I  have  come  to  apologize,"  he  said. 

"Not  one  vord  more,  my  lort,  I  peg," 
interrupted  Duncan.  "My  lort  is  come, 
out  of  his  own  cootness,  to  pring  her  a 
creat  kift ;  for  he'll  pe  hearing  of  ta  sad 
accident  which  pefell  her  poor  pipes  one 
efening  lately.  Tey  was  ferry  old,  my 
lort,  and  easily  hurt." 

"I  am  sorry — "  said  the  marquis,  but 
again  Duncan  interrupted  him. 

"I  am  clad,  my  lort,"  he  said,  "for  it 
prings  me  ta  creat  choy.  If  my  lady 
and  your  lortship  will  honor  her  poor 
house  py  sitting  town,  she  will  haf  ta 
pleasure  of  pe  ofTering  them  a  little 
music." 

His  hospitality  would  give  them  of  the 
best  he  had ;  but  ere  the  entertainment 
was  over,  the  marquis  judged  himself 
more  than  fairly  punished  by  the  pipes 
for  all  the  wrong  he  had  done  the  piper. 

They  sat  down,  and,  at  a  sis^n  from  his 
lordship,  the  servant  placed  his  charge 
in  Duncan's  hands,  and  retired.  The 
piper  received  the  instrument  with  a 
proud  gesture  of  gratification,  felt  it  all 
over,  screwed  at  this  and  that  for  a  mo- 


86 


MALCOLM. 


ment,  then  filled  the  great  bag  gloriously 
full.  The  next  instant  a  scream  invaded 
the  astonished  air  fit  to  rival  the  skirl 
produced  by  the  towzie  tyke  of  Kirk- 
Alloway ;  another  instant,  and  the  piper 
was  on  his  legs,  as  full  of  pleasure  and 
pride  as  his  bag  of  wind,  strutting  up 
and  down  the  naiTow  chamber  like  a 
turkey-cock  before  his  hens,  and  turn- 
ing ever,  after  precisely  so  many  strides, 
with  a  grand  gesture  and  mighty  sweep, 
as  if  he  too  had  a  glorious  tail  to  mind, 
and  was  bound  to  keep  it  ceaselessly 
quivering  to  the  tremor  of  the  reed  in 
the  throat  of  his  chanter. 

Malcolm,  erect  behind  their  visitors, 
gazed  with  admiring  eyes  at  everj'  mo- 
tion of  his  grandfather.  To  one  who 
had  from  earliest  infancy  looked  up  to 
him  with  reverence,  there  was  nothing 
ridiculous  in  the  display,  in  the  strut,  in 
all  that  to  other  eyes  too  evidently  re- 
vealed the  vanity  of  the  piper:  Malcolm 
regarded  it  all  only  as  making  up  the 
orthodox  mode  of  playing  the  pipes.  It 
was  indeed  well  that  he  could  not  see 
the  expression  upon  the  faces  of  those 
behind  whose  chairs  he  stood,  while  for 
moments  that  must  have  seemed  min- 
utes they  succumbed  to  the  wild  uproar 
which  issued  from  those  splendid  pipes. 
On  an  opposite  hill-side,  with  a  valley 
between,  it  would  have  sounded  poetic  ; 
in  a  charging  regiment,  none  could  have 
wished  for  more  inspiriting  battle-strains ; 
even  in  a  great  hall,  inspiring  and  guid- 
ing the  merry  reel,  it  might  have  been  in 
place  and  welcome ;  but  in  a  room  of 
ten  feet  by  twelve,  with  a  wooden  ceil- 
ing, acting  like  a  drum-head,  at  the 
height  of  seven  feet  and  a  half! — it  was 
little  below  torture  to  the  marquis  and 
Lady  Florimel.  Simultaneously  they 
rose  to  make  their  escape. 

"  My  lord  and  my  leddy  maun  be 
gauin',  daddy,"  cried  Malcolm. 

Absorbed  in  the  sound  which  his  lungs 
created  and  his  fingers  modulated,  the 
piper  had  forgotten  all  about  his  visit- 
ors; but  the  moment  his  grandson's 
voice  reached  him,  the  tumult  ceased ; 
he  took  the  port-vent  from  his  lips,  and 
with  sightless  eyes  turned  full  on  Lord 
Lossie,  said  in  a  low  earnest  voice — 


"  My  lort,  she  '11  pe  ta  craandest  staand 
o'  pipes  she  efer  blew,  and  proud  and 
thankful  she'll  pe  to  her  lort  marquis, 
and  to  ta  Lort  of  lorts,  for  ta  kift.  Ta 
pipes  shall  co  town  from  cheneration  to 
cheneration  to  ta  ent  of  time ;  yes,  my  lort, 
until  ta  loud  zry  of  tem  pe  trownt  in  ta 
roar  of  ta  trump  of  ta  creat  archanchel, 
when  he'll  pe  setting  one  foot  on  ta  laand, 
and  ta  other  foot  upon  ta  sea,  and  Clen- 
lyon  shall  pe  cast  into  ta  lake  of  fire." 

He  ended  with  a  low  bow.  They  shook 
hands  with  him,  thanked  him  for  his 
music,  wished  him  good-night,  and,  with 
a  kind  nod  to  Malcolm,  left  the  cottage. 

Duncan  resumed  his  playing  the  mo- 
ment they  were  out  of  the  house,  and 
Malcolm,  satisfied  of  his  well-being  for 
a  couple  of  hours  at  least — he  had  been 
music-starved  so  long — went  also  out,  in 
quest  of  a  little  solitude. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
WHENCE   AND   WHITHER? 

He  wandered  along  the  shore  on  the 
land  side  of  the  mound,  with  a  favorite 
old  book  of  Scottish  ballads  in  his  hand, 
every  now  and  then  stooping  to  gather 
a  sea-anemone — a  white  flower  some- 
thing like  a  wild  geranium,  with  a  faint 
sweet  smell — or  a  small,  short-stalked 
harebell,  or  a  red  daisy,  as  large  as  a 
small  primrose ;  for  along  the  coast  there, 
on  cliff  or  in  sand,  on  rock  or  in  field, 
the  daisies  are  remarkable  for  size,  and 
often  not  merely  tipped,  but  dyed  through- 
out with  a  deep  red. 

He  had  gathered  a  bunch  of  the  finest, 
and  had  thrown  himself  down  on  the  side 
of  the  dune,  whence,  as  he  lay,  only  the 
high  road,  the  park  wall,  the  temple  of 
the  winds,  and  the  blue  sky  were  visible. 
The  vast  sea,  for  all  the  eye  could  tell, 
was  nowhere — not  a  ripple  of  it  was  to 
be  seen,  but  the  ear  was  filled  with  the 
night  gush  and  flow  of  it.  A  sweet  wind 
was  blowing,  hardly  blowing,  rather  gli- 
ding, like  a  slumbering  river,  from  the 
west.  The  sun  had  vanished,  leaving  a 
ruin  of  gold  and  rose  behind  him,  gradu- 
ally fading  into  dull  orange  and  lead  ana 
blue   sky   and   stars.     There   was   light 


MALCOLM. 


enough  to  read  by,  but  he  never  opened 
his  book.  He  was  thinking  over  some- 
thing Mr.  Graham  had  said  to  him  a  few 
days  before,  namely,  that  all  impatience 
of  monotony,  all  weariness  of  best  things 
even,  are  but  signs  of  the  eternity  of  our 
nature — the  broken  human  fashions  of 
the  divine  everlastingness. 

*  *  *  * 

"  I  dinna  ken  whaur  it  comes  frae," 
said  a  voice  above  him. 

He  looked  up.  On  the  ridge  of  the 
mound,  the  whole  of  his  dwarfed  form 
relieved  against  the  sky  and  looking  large 
in  the  twilight,  stood  the  mad  laird,  reach- 
ing out  his  forehead  toward  the  west,  with 
his  arms  expanded  as  if  to  meet  the  ever- 
coming  wind. 

"iXaebody  kens  whaur  the  win'  comes 
frae,  or  whaur  it  gangs  till,"  said  Mal- 
colm. "Ye're  no  a  hair  waur  aff  nor 
ither  fowk,  there,  laird." 

"  Does't  come  frae  a  guid  place,  or  frae 
an  ill  ?"  said  the  laird,  doubtingly. 

"It's  saft  an'  kin'ly  i'  the  fin'  o'  't," 
returned  Malcolm  suggestively,  rising  and 
joining  the  laird  on  the  top  of  the  dune, 
and  like  him  spreading  himself  out  to  the 
western  air. 

The  twilight  had  deepened,  merging 
into  such  night  as  the  summer  in  that 
region  knows — a  sweet  pale  memory  of 
the  past  day.  The  sky  was  full  of  sparkles 
of  pale  gold  in  a  fathomless  blue  ;  there 
was  no  moon  ;  the  darker  sea  lay  quiet 
below,  with  only  a  murmur  about  its  lip, 
and  fitfully  reflected  the  stars.  The  soft 
wind  kept  softly  blowing.  Behind  them 
shone  a  light  at  the  harbor's  mouth,  and 
a  twinkling  was  here  and  there  visible  in 
the  town  above  ;  but  all  was  as  still  as 
if  there  were  no  life  save  in  the  wind 
and  the  sea  and  the  stars.  The  whole 
feeling  was  as  if  something  had  been 
finished  in  heaven,  and  the  outmost  rip- 
ples of  the  following  rest  had  overflowed 
and  were  now  pulsing  faintly  and  dream- 
ily across  the  bosom  of  the  laboring  earth, 
with  feeblest  suggestion  of  the  mighty 
peace  beyond.  Alas,  words  can  do  so 
little  !  even  such  a  night  is  infinite. 

"  Ay,"  answered  the  laird ;  "  but  it 
makes  me  dowfart  [melaficJioly]  like,  i' 
the  inside." 


"Some  o'  the  best  things  does  that," 
said  Malcolm.  "I  think  a  kiss  frae  my 
mither  wad  gar  me  greet." 

He  knew  the  laird's  peculiarities  well ; 
but  in  the  thought  of  his  mother  had  for- 
gotten the  antipathy  of  his  companion  to 
the  word.  Stewart  gave  a  moaning  ciy, 
put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  and  glided 
down  the  slope  of  the  dune  seaward. 

Malcolm  was  greatly  distressed.  He 
had  a  regard  for  the  laird  far  beyond 
pity,  and  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
having  inadvertently  caused  him  pain. 
But  he  dared  not  follow  him,  for  that 
would  be  but  to  heighten  the  anguish  of 
the  tortured  mind  and  the  suffering  of 
the  sickly  frame  ;  for,  when  pursued,  he 
would  accomplish  a  short  distance  at 
an  incredible  speed,  then  drop  suddenly 
and  lie  like  one  dead.  Malcolm  therefore 
threw  off  his  heavy  boots,  and  starting 
at  full  speed  along  the  other  side  of  the 
dune,  made  for  the  bored  craig ;  his  ob- 
ject being  to  outrun  the  laird  without  be- 
ing seen  by  him,  and  so,  doubling  the 
rock,  return  with  leisurely  steps,  and 
meet  him.  Sweetly  the  west  wind  whis- 
tled about  his  head  as  he  ran.  In  a  few 
moments  he  had  rounded  the  rock,  to- 
ward which  the  laird  was  still  running, 
but  now  more  slowly.  The  tide  was 
high  and  came  near  its  foot,  leaving  but 
a  few  yards  of  passage  between,  in  which 
space  they  approached  each  other,  Mal- 
colm with  sauntering  step,  as  if  strolling 
homeward.  Lifting  his  bonnet,  a  token 
of  respect  he  never  omitted  when  he 
met  the  mad  laird,  he  stood  aside  in  the 
narrow  way.  Mr.  Stewart  stopped  ab- 
ruptly, took  his  fingers  froin  his  ears,  and 
stared  in  perplexity. 

"It's  a  richt  bonny  nicht,  laird,"  said 
Malcolm. 

The  poor  fellow  looked  hurriedly  be- 
hind him,  then  stared  again,  then  made 
gestures  backward,  and  next  pointed  at 
Malcolm  with  rapid  pokes  of  his  fore- 
finger. Bewilderment  had  brought  on 
the  impediment  in  his  speech,  and  all 
Malcolm  could  distinguish  in  the  bab- 
bling efforts  at  utterance  which  followed 
were  the  words, — "Twa  o'  them!  Twa 
o'  them  !  Twa  o'  them  !"  often  and  hur- 
riedly repeated. 


88 


MALCOLM. 


"  It's  a  fine,  saft-sleekit  win',  laird," 
said  Malcolm,  as  if  they  were  meeeting 
for  the  first  time  that  night.  "  I  think  it 
maun  come  frae  the  blue  there,  ayont 
the  stars.  There's  a  heap  o'  wonnerfu' 
things  there,  they  tell  me ;  an'  whiles  a 
strokin'  win,'  an'  whiles  a  rosy  smell, 
an'  whiles  a  bricht  licht,  an"  whiles,  they 
say,  an  auld  yearnin'  sang  '11  brak  oot, 
an'  wanner  awa'  doon,  an'  gang  flittin' 
an'  fleein'  amang  the  sair  herts  o'  the 
men  an'  women  fowk  'at  canna  get 
things  putten  richt." 

"  I  think  there  are  two  fools  of  them  !" 
said  the  marquis,  referring  to  the  words 
of  the  laird. 

He  was  seated  with  Lady  Florimel  on 
the  town-side  of  the  rock,  hidden  from 
them  by  one  sharp  corner.  They  had 
seen  the  mad  laird  coming,  and  had  re- 
cognized Malcolm's  voice. 

"  I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  come  frae," 
burst  from  the  laird,  the  word  ivhaur 
drawn  out  and  emphasized  almost  to  a 
howl ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  moved  on 
again,  but  gently  now,  toward  the  rocks 
of  the  Scaurnose.  Anxious  to  get  him 
thoroughly  soothed  before  they  parted, 
Malcolm  accompanied  him.  They  walk- 
ed a  little  way  side  by  side  in  silence, 
the  laird  every  now  and  then  heaving 
his  head  like  a  fretted  horse  toward  the 
sky,  as  if  he  sought  to  shake  the  heavy 
burden  from  his  back,  straighten  out  his 
poor  twisted  spine,  and  stand  erect  like 
his  companion. 

"Ay!"  Malcolm  began  again,  as  if 
he  had  in  the  mean  time  been  thinking 
over  the  question,  and  was  now  assured 
upon  it,  "the  win'  maun  come  frae  yont 
the  stars;  for  dinna  ye  min',  laird — ? 
Ye  was  at  the  kirk  last  Sunday — wasna 
ye  ?" 

The  laird  nodded  an  affirmative,  and 
Malcolm  went  on. 

"An'  didna  ye  hear  the  minister  read 
frae  the  buik  'at  hoo  ilka  guid  an'  ilka 
perfit  gift  was  frae  abune,  an'  cam  frae 
the  Father  o'  lichts?" 

"Father  o'  lichts!"  repeated  the  laird, 
and  looked  up  at  the  bright  stars.  "  I 
dinna  ken  whaur  /cam  frae.  I  hae  nae 
father.  I  hae  only  a  ...  I  hae  only  a 
wuman." 


The  moment  he  had  said  the  word,  he 
began  to  move  his  head  from  side  to 
side  like  a  scared  animal  seeking  where 
to  conceal  itself. 

"The  Father  o'  lichts  is  your  father 
an'  mine — the  father  o'  a'  o'  's,"  said 
Malcolm. 

"O'  a'  guid  fowk,  I  daursay,''  said  the 
laird,  with  a  deep  and  quivering  sigh. 

"Mr.  Graham  says — o'  a'body,"  re- 
turned Malcolm,  " — guid  an'  ill; — o'  the 
guid  to  haud  them  guid  an'  mak  them 
better — o'  the  ill  to  mak  them  guid." 

"Eh!  gien  that  war  true!"  said  the 
laird. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  min- 
ute. All  at  once  the  laird  threw  up  his 
hands,  and  fell  flat  on  his  face  on  the 
sand,  his  poor  hump  rising  skyward 
above  his  head.  Malcolm  thought  he 
had  been  seized  with  one  of  the  fits  to 
which  he  was  subject,  and  knelt  down 
beside  him,  to  see  if  he  could  do  any- 
thing for  him.  Then  he  found  he  was 
praying :  he  heard  him — he  could  but 
just  hear  him  —  murmuring  over  and 
over,  all  but  inaudibly,  "Father  o'  lichts! 
Father  o'  lichts  !  Father  o'  lichts  !"  It 
seemed  as  if  no  other  word  dared  mingle 
itself  with  that  cry.  Maniac  or  not,  the 
mood  of  the  man  was  supremely  sane, 
and  altogether  too  sacred  to  disturb. 
Malcolm  retreated  a  little  way,  sat  down 
in  the  sand  and  watched  beside  him.  It 
was  a  solemn  time — the  full  tide  lapping 
up  on  the  long  yellow  sand  from  the  wide 
sea  darkening  out  to  the  dim  horizon ; 
the  gentle  wind  blowing  through  the 
molten  darkness ;  overhead,  the  great 
vault  without  arch  or  keystone,  of  dim 
liquid,  blue,  and  sown  with  worlds  so  far 
removed  they  could  only  shine ;  and  on 
the  shore,  the  centre  of  all  the  cosmic 
order,  a  misshapen  heap  of  man,  a  tu- 
mulus in  which  lay  buried  a  live  and 
lovely  soul !  The  one  pillar  of  its  chap- 
ter-house had  given  way,  and  the  down- 
rushing  ruin  had  so  crushed  and  distort- 
ed it,  that  thenceforth  until  some  resur- 
rection should  arrive,  disorder  and  mis- 
shape must  appear  to  it  the  law  of  the 
universe,  and  loveliness  but  the  passing 
dream  of  a  brain  glad  to  deceive  its  own 
misery,  and  so  to  fancy  it  had  received 


MALCOLM. 


89 


from  above  what  it  had  itself  generated 
of  its  own  poverty  from  below.  To  the 
mind's  eye  of  Malcolm,  the  little  hump 
on  the  sand  was  heaved  to  the  stars, 
higher  than  ever  Roman  tomb  or  Egyp- 
tian pyramid,  in  silent  appeal  to  the 
sweet  heavens,  a  dumb  prayer  for  pity, 
a  visible  groan  for  the  resurrection  of  the 
body.  For  a  few  minutes  he  sat  as  still 
as  the  prostrate  laird. 

But  bethinking  himself  that  his  grand- 
father would  not  go  to  bed  until  he  went 
back,  also  that  the  laird  was  in  no  danger, 
as  the  tide  was  now  receding,  he  resolved 
to  go  and  get  the  old  man  to  bed,  and 
then  return.  For  somehow  he  felt  in  his 
heart  that  he  ought  not  to  leave  him 
alone.  He  could  not  enter  into  his  strife 
to  aid  him,  or  come  near  him  in  any 
closer  way  than  watching  by  his  side 
until  his  morning  dawned,  or  at  least  the 
waters  of  his  flood  assuaged,  yet  what 
he  could  he  must :  he  would  wake  with 
him  in  his  conflict. 

He  rose  and  ran  for  the  bored  craig, 
through  which  lay  the  straight  line  to 
his  abandoned  boots. 

As  he  approached  the  rock,  he  heard 
the  voices  of  Lord  Lossie  and  Lady 
Florimel,  who,  although  the  one  had  not 
yet  verified  her  being,  the  other  had 
almost  ruined  his,  were  nevertheless  en- 
joying the  same  thing,  the  sweetness  of 
the  night,  together.  Not  hearing  Mal- 
colm's approach,  they  went  on  talking, 
and  as  he  was  passing  swiftly  through 
the  bore,  he  heard  these  words  from  the 
marquis — 

"The  world's  an  ill-baked  cake,  Flory, 
and  all  that  a — woman,  at  least,  can  do, 
is  to  cut  as  large  a  piece  of  it  as  possible, 
for  immediate  use." 

The  remark  being  a  general  one,  Mal- 
colm cannot  be  much  blamed  if  he  stood 
with  one  foot  lifted  to  hear  Florimel's 
reply. 

"  If  it  's  an  ill-baked  one,  papa,"  she 
returned,  "  I  think  it  would  be  better  to 
cut  as  small  a  piece  of  it  as  will  serve 
for  immediate  use." 

Malcolm  was  delighted  with  her  an- 
swer, never  thinking  whether  it  came 
from  her  head  or  her  heart,  for  the  two 
were  at  one  in  himself. 


As  soon  as  he  appeared  on  the  other 
side  of  the  rock,  the  marquis  challenged 
him  : 

"  Who  goes  there  ?"  he  said. 

"  Malcolm  MacPhail,  my  lord." 

"You  rascal !"  said  his  lordship,  good- 
humoredly;  "you've  been  listening!" 

"  No  muckle,  my  lord.  I  hard  but  a 
word  apiece.  An'  I  maun  say  my  led- 
dy  had  the  best  o'  the  loagic." 

"  My  leddy  generally  has,  I  suspect," 
laughed  the  marquis.  "How  long  have 
you  been  in  the  rock  there  ?" 

"  No  ae  meenute,  my  lord.  I  flang  aff 
my  butes  to  rin  efter  a  freen',  an'  that's 
hoo  ye  didna  hear  me  come  up.  I'm 
gaein'  efter  them  noo,  to  gang  home  i' 
them.  Guid-nicht,  my  lord.  Guid-nicht, 
my  leddy." 

He  turned  and  pursued  his  way  ;  but 
Florimel's  face  glimmering  through  the 
night,  went  with  him  as  he  ran. 

He  told  his  grandfather  how  he  had 
left  the  mad  laird  lying  on  his  face  on 
the  sands  between  the  bored  craig  and 
the  rocks  of  the  promontory,  and  said 
he  would  like  to  go  back  to  him. 

"  He  '11  pe  hafing  a  fit,  poor  man  !" 
said  Duncan.  "  —  Yes,  my  son,  you 
must  CO  to  him,  and  do  your  pest  for 
him.  After  such  an  honor  as  we'fe  had 
this  day,  we  mustn't  pe  forgetting  our 
poor  neighbors.  Will  you  pe  taking  to 
him  a  trop  of  uisgebeatha  ?" 

"  He  taks  naething  o'  that  kin',"  said 
Malcolm. 

He  could  not  tell  him  that  the  mad- 
man, as  men  called  him,  lay  wrestling 
in  prayer  with  the  Father  of  lights.  The 
old  highlander  was  not  irreverent,  but 
the  thing  would  have  been  unintelligible 
to  him.  He  could  readily  have  believed 
that  the  supposed  lunatic  might  be  favor- 
ed beyond  ordinary  mortals  ;  that  at  that 
very  moment,  lost  in  his  fit,  he  might  be 
rapt  in  a  vision  of  the  future — a  wave  of 
time,  far  off  as  yet  from  the  souls  of  other 
men,  even  now  rolling  over  his ;  but  that 
a  soul  should  seek  after  vital  content  by 
contact  with  its  Maker,  was  an  idea  be- 
longing to  a  region  which,  in  the  high- 
lander's  being,  lay  as  yet  an  unwatered 
desert,  an  undiscovered  land,  whence 
even  no  faintest  odor  had  been  wafted 


9° 


MALCOLM. 


across  the  still  air  of  surprised  contem- 
plation. 

About  the  time  when  Malcolm  once 
more  sped  through  the  bored  craig,  the 
marquis  and  Lady  Florimel  were  walk- 
ing through  the  tunnel  on  their  way 
home,  chatting  about  a  great  ball  they 
were  going  to  give  the  tenants. 

He  found  the  laird  where  he  had  left 
him,  and  thought  at  first  he  must  now 
surely  be  asleep ;  but  once  more  bending 
over  him,  he  could  hear  him  still  mur- 
muring at  intervals,  "  Father  o'  lichts ! 
Father  o'  lichts !" 

Not  less  compassionate,  and  more 
sympathetic  than  Eliphaz  or  Bildad  or 
Zophar,  Malcolm  again  took  his  place 


near  him,  and  sat  watching  by  him  until 
the  gray  dawn  began  in  the  east.  Then 
all  at  once  the  laird  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
without  a  look  on  either  side  walked 
steadily  away  toward  the  promontory. 
Malcolm  rose  also,  and  gazed  after  him 
until  he  vanished  amongst  the  rocks,  no 
motion  of  his  distorted  frame  witnessing 
other  than  calmness  of  spirit.  So  his 
watcher  returned  in  peace  through  the 
cool  morning  air  to  the  side  of  his  slum- 
bering grandfather. 

No  one  in  the  Seaton  of  Portlossie 
ever  dreamed  of  locking  door  or  window 
at  night. 


:fa.i^t   v 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
ARMAGEDDON. 

THE  home  season  of  the  herring-fish- 
ery was  to  commence  a  few  days 
afier  the  occurrences  last  recorded.  The 
boats  had  all  returned  from  other  sta- 
tions, and  the  little  harbor  was  one  crowd 
of  stumpy  masts,  each  with  its  halliard, 
the  sole  cordage  visible,  rove  through  the 
top  of  it,  for  the  hoisting  of  a  lug  sail, 
tanned  to  a  rich  red  brown.  From  this 
underwood  towered  aloft  the  masts  of  a 
coasting  schooner,  discharging  its  load 
of  coal  at  the  little  quay.  Other  boats 
lay  drawn  up  on  the  beach  in  front  of 
the  Seaton,  and  beyond  it  on  the  other 
side  of  the  burn.  Men  and  women  were 
busy  with  the  brown  nets,  laying  them 
out  on  the  short  grass  of  the  shore,  mend- 
ing them  with  netting-needles  like  small 
shuttles,  carrying  huge  burdens  of  them 
on  their  shoulders  in  the  hot  sunlight ; 
others  were  mending,  caulking,  or  tarring 
their  boats,  and  looking  to  their  various 
fittings.  All  was  preparation  for  the  new 
venture  in  their  own  waters,  and  every- 
thing went  merrily  and  hopefully.  Wives 
who  had  not  accompanied  their  husbands 
now  had  them  home  again,  and  their 
anxieties  would  henceforth  endure  but 
for  a  night — joy  would  come  with  the 
red  sails  in  the  morning ;  lovers  were 
once  more  together,  the  one  great  dread 
broken  into  a  hundred  little  questioning 
fears ;  mothers  had  their  sons  again,  to 
watch  with  loving  eyes  as  they  swung 
their  slow  limbs  at  their  labor,  or  in  the 
evenings  sauntered  about,  hands  in  pock- 
ets, pipe  in  mouth,  and  blue  bonnet  cast 
carelessly  on  the  head :  it  was  almost  a 
single  family,  bound  together  by  a  net- 
work of  intermarriages,  so  intricate  as 
to  render  it  impossible  for  any  one  who 
did  not  belong  to  the  community  to  fol- 
low the  threads  or  read  the  design  of  the 
social  tracery. 
And  while  the  Seaton  swarmed  with 


"the  goings  on  of  life,"  the  town  of  Port- 
lossie  lay  above  it  still  as  a  country  ham- 
let, with  more  odors  than  people  about : 
of  people  it  was  seldom  indeed  that  three 
were  to  be  spied  at  once  in  the  wide 
street,  while  of  odors  you  would  always 
encounter  a  smell  of  leather  from  the 
saddler's  shop,  and  a  mingled  message 
of  bacon  and  cheese  from  the  very  gen- 
eral dealer's — in  whose  window  hung 
what  seemed  three  hams,  and  only  he 
who  looked  twice  would  discover  that 
the  middle  object  was  no  ham,  but  a 
violin — while  at  every  corner  lurked  a 
scent  of  gillyflowers  and  southernwood. 
Idly  supreme,  Portlossie  the  upper  look- 
ed down  in  condescension— that  is,  in 
half-concealed  contempt — on  the  ant- 
heap  below  it. 

The  evening  arrived  on  which  the 
greater  part  of  the  boats  was  to  put  off 
for  the  first  essay.  Malcolm  would  have 
made  one  in  the  little  fleet,  for  he  be- 
longed to  his  friend  Joseph  Mair's  crew, 
had  it  not  been  found  impossible  to  get 
the  new  boat  ready  before  the  following 
evening ;  whence,  for  this  one  more,  he 
was  still  his  own  master,  with  one  more 
chance  of  a  pleasure  for  which  he  had 
been  on  the  watch  ever  since  Lady  Flo- 
rimel  had  spoken  of  having  a  row  in  his 
boat.  True,  it  was  not  often  she  appear- 
ed on  the  shore  in  the  evening ;  never- 
theless he  kept  watching  the  dune  with 
his  keen  eyes,  for  he  had  hinted  to  Mrs. 
Courthope  that  perhaps  her  young  lady 
would  like  to  see  the  boats  go  out. 

Although  it  was  the  fiftieth  time  his 
eyes  had  swept  the  links  in  vague  hope, 
he  could  yet  hardly  believe  their  testi- 
mony when  now  at  length  he  spied  a 
form,  which  could  only  be  hers,  looking 
seaward  from  the  slope,  as  still  as  a 
sphinx  on  Egyptian  sands. 

He  sauntered  slowly  toward  her,  by 
the  landward  side  of  the  dune,  gathering 
on   his   way  a  handful  of  the   reddest 

91 


92 


MALCOLM. 


daisies  he  could  find ;  then,  ascending 
the  sand-hill,  approached  her  along  the 
top. 

"Saw  ye  ever  sic  gowans  in  yer  life, 
my  leddy  ?"  he  said,  holding  out  his  posy. 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  them  ?"  she  re- 
turned. 

"Ow  ay,  my  leddy — daisies  ye  ca' 
them.  I  dinna  ken  but  yours  is  the 
bonnier  name  o'  the  twa — gien  it  be 
what  Mr.  Graham  tells  me  the  auld  poet 
Chaucer  maks  o'  't." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Ow,  jist  the  een  o*  the  day — the  day's 
eyes,  ye  ken.  They  're  sma'  een  for  sic 
a  great  face,  but  syne  there's  a  lot  o' 
them  to  mak  up  for  that.  They've  be- 
gun to  close  a'ready,  but  the  mair  they 
close  the  bonnier  they  luik,  wi'  their  bits 
o'  screwed-up  mooies  [little  mouths). 
But  saw  ye  ever  sic  reid  anes,  or  ony  sic 
a  size,  my  leddy?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  did.  What  is  the 
reason  they  are  so  large  and  red  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken.  There  canna  be  muckle 
nourishment  in  sic  a  thin  soil,  but  there 
maun  be  something  that  agrees  wi'  them. 
It's  the  same  a'  roon'  aboot  here." 

Lady  Florimel  sat  looking  at  the  dai- 
sies, and  Malcolm  stood  a  few  yards  off, 
watching  for  the  first  of  the  red  sails, 
which  must  soon  show  themselves,  creep- 
ing out  on  the  ebb  tide.  Nor  had  he 
waited  long  before  a  boat  appeared,  then 
another  and  another  —  six  huge  oars, 
ponderous  to  toil  withal,  urging  each 
from  the  shelter  of  the  harbor  out  into 
the  wide  weltering  plain.  The  fishing- 
boat  of  that  time  was  not  decked  as  now, 
and  each,  with  every  lift  of  its  bows,  re- 
vealed to  their  eyes  a  gaping  hollow, 
ready,  if  a  towering  billow  should  break 
above  it,  to  be  filled  with  sudden  death. 
One  by  one  the  whole  fleet  crept  out,  and 
ever  as  they  gained  the  breeze,  up  went 
the  red  sails,  and  filled :  aside  leaned 
every  boat  from  the  wind,  and  went  dan- 
cing away  over  the  frolicking  billows 
toward  the  sunset,  its  sails,  deep-dyed  in 
oak-bark,  shining  redder  and  redder  in 
the  growing  redness  of  the  sinking  sun. 
Nor  did  Portlossie  alone  send  out  her 
boats,  like  huge  sea-birds  warring  on  the 
live  treasures  of  the  deep ;  from  beyond 


the  headlands  east  and  west,  out  they 
glided  on  slow  red  wing — from  Scaur- 
nose,  from  Sandend,  from  Clamrock, 
from  the  villages  all  along  the  coast — 
spreading  as  they  came,  each  to  its  work 
apart  through  all  the  laborious  night,  to 
rejoin  its  fellows  only  as  home  drew  them 
back  in  the  clear  gray  morning,  laden 
and  slow  with  the  harvest  of  the  stars. 
But  the  night  lay  between,  into  which 
they  were  sailing  over  waters  of  heaving 
green  that  for  ever  kept  tossing  up  roses — 
a  night  whose  curtain  was  a  horizon  built 
up  of  steady  blue,  but  gorgeous  with  pass- 
ing purple  and  crirnson,  and  flashing 
with  molten  gold. 

Malcolm  was  not  one  of  those  to  whom 
the  sea  is  but  a  pond  for  fish,  and  the 
sky  a  storehouse  of  wind  and  rain,  sun- 
shine and  snow  :  he  stood  for  a  moment 
gazing,  lost  in  pleasure.  Then  he  turned 
to  Lady  Florimel :  she  had  thrown  her 
daisies  on  the  sand,  appeared  to  be  deep 
in  her  book,  and  certainly  caught  noth- 
ing of  the  splendor  before  her,  beyond 
the  red  light  on  her  page. 

"Saw  ye  ever  a  bonnier  sicht,  my 
leddy?"  said  Malcolm. 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  and  gazed  in 
silence.  Her  nature  was  full  of  poetic 
possibilities;  and  now  a  formless  thought 
foreshadowed  itself  in  a  feeling  she  did 
not  understand :  why  should  such  a  sight 
as  this  make  her  feel  sad  ?  The  vital 
connection  between  joy  and  effort  had 
begun  from  afar  to  reveal  itself  with  the 
question  she  now  uttered. 

"  What  is  it  all  for  ?"  she  asked  dream- 
ily, her  eyes  gazing  out  on  the  calm  ec- 
stasy of  color,  which  seemed  to  have 
broken  the  bonds  of  law,  and  ushered  in 
a  new  chaos,  fit  matrix  of  new  heavens 
and  new  earth. 

"To catch herrin',"  answered  Malcolm, 
ignorant  of  the  mood  that  prompted  the 
question,  and  hence  mistaking  its  pur- 
port. 

But  a  falling  doubt  had  troubled  the 
waters  of  her  soul,  and  through  the  ripple 
she  could  descry  it  settling  into  form. 
She  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  want  to  know,"  she  resumed, "why 
it  looks  as  if  some  great  thing  were  going 
on.     Why  is  all  this  pomp  and  show  ? 


MALCOLM. 


93 


Something  ought  to  be  at  hand.  All  I 
see  is  the  catching  of  a  few  miserable 
fish !  If  it  were  the  eve  of  a  glorious 
battle  now,  I  could  understand  it — if 
those  were  the  little  English  boats  rush- 
ing to  attack  the  Spanish  Armada,  for 
instance.  But  they  are  only  gone  to 
catch  fish  !  Or  if  they  were  setting  out 
to  discover  the  Isles  of  the  West,  the 
country  beyond  the  sunset ! — but  this 
jars." 

"  I  canna  answer  ye  a'  at  ance,  my 
leddy,"  said  Malcolm  :  "  I  maun  taktime 
to  think  aboot  it.  But  I  ken  brawly  what 
ye  mean." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  withdrew,  and 
descending  the  mound,  walked  away  be- 
yond the  bored  craig,  regardless  now  of 
the  far-lessening  sails  and  the  sinking 
sun.  The  motes  of  the  twilight  were 
multiplying  fast  as  he  returned  along  the 
shore-side  of  the  dune,  but  Lady  Florimel 
had  vanished  from  its  crest.  He  ran  to 
the  top :  thence,  in  the  dim  of  the  twi- 
light, he  saw  her  slow-retreating  form, 
phantom-like,  almost  at  the  grated  door 
of  the  tunnel,  which,  like  that  of  a  tomb, 
appeared  ready  to  draw  her  in,  and  yield 
her  no  more. 

"  My  leddy !  my  leddy !"  he  cried, 
"winna  ye  bide  for  't?" 

He  went  bounding  after  her  like  a  deer. 
She  heard  him  call,  and  stood  holding 
the  door  half  open. 

"  It  's  the  battle  o'  Armageddon,  my 
leddy,"  he  cried,  as  he  came  within  hear- 
ing distance. 

"The  battle  of  what?"  she  exclaimed, 
bewildered.  "  I  really  can't  understand 
your  savage  Scotch." 

"Hoot,  my  leddy!  the  battle  o'  Ar- 
mageddon's no  ane  o'  the  Scots  battles ; 
it's  the  battle  atween  the  richt  an'  the 
wrang,  'at  ye  read  aboot  i'  the  buik  o' 
the  Revelations." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?" 
returned  Lady  Florimel  in  dismay,  be- 
ginning to  fear  that  her  squire  was  losing 
his  senses. 

"  It's  jist  what  ye  was  sayin',  my  leddy : 
sic  a  pomp  as  yon  bude  to  hing  abune  a 
gran'  battle  some  gait  or  ither." 

"What  has  the  catching  of  fish  to 
do  with  a  battle   in  the   Revelations  ?" 


said  the  girl,  moving  a  little  within  the 
door. 

"Weel,  my  leddy,  gien  I  took  in  han' 
to  set  it  furth  to  ye,  I  would  hae  to  tell 
ye  a'  that  Mr.  Graham  has  been  learnin' 
me  sin'  ever  I  can  min'.  He  says  'at 
the  whole  economy  o'  natur  is  fashiont 
unco  like  that  o'  the  kingdom  o'  haven : 
it's  jist  a  gradation  o'  services,  an'  the 
highest  en'  o'  ony  animal  is  to  contree- 
bute  to  the  life  o'  ane  higher  than  itsel' ; 
sae  that  it's  the  gran'  preevilege  o'  the 
fish  we  tak  to  be  aten  by  human  bein's, 
an'  uphaud  what's  abune  them." 

"  That's  a  poor  consolation  to  the  fish," 
said  Lady  Florimel. 

"  Hoo  ken  ye  that,  my  leddy  ?  Ye 
can  tell  nearhan'  as  little  aboot  the  hert 
o'  a  herrin' — sic  as  it  has — as  the  herrin' 
can  tell  aboot  yer  ain,  whilk,  I'm  think- 
in',  maun  be  o'  the  lairgest  size." 

"  How  should  you  know  anything 
about  my  heart,  pray?"  she  asked,  with 
more  amusement  than  offence. 

"Jist  by  my  ain,"  answered  Malcolm. 

Lady  Florimel  began  to  fear  she  must 
ha'\^e  allowed  the  fisher-lad  more  liberty 
than  was  proper,  seeing  he  dared  avow 
that  he  knew  the  heart  of  a  lady  of  her 
position  by  his  own.  But  indeed  Mal- 
colm was  wrong,  for  in  the  scale  of  hearts 
Lady  Florimel's  was  far  below  his.  She 
stepped  quite  within  the  door,  and  was 
on  the  point  of  shutting  it,  but  something 
about  the  youth  restrained  her,  exciting 
at  least  her  curiosity ;  his  eyes  glowed 
with  a  deep  quiet  light,  and  his  face, 
even  grand  at  the  moment,  had  a  greater 
influence  upon  her  than  she  knew.  In- 
stead therefore  of  interposing  the  door 
between  them,  she  only  kept  it  poised, 
ready  to  fall-to  the  moment  the  sanity 
of  the  youth  should  become  a  hair's- 
breadth  more  doubtful  than  she  already 
considered  it. 

"  It's  a'  pairt  o'  ae  thing,  my  leddy," 
Malcolm  resumed.  "The  herrin  's  like 
the  fowk  'at  cairries  the  mate  an'  the 
pooder  an'  sic  like  for  them  'at  does  the 
fechtin.'  The  hert  o'  the  leevin'  man's 
the  place  whaur  the  battle's  foucht,  an' 
it's  aye  gaein'  on  an'  on  there  atween  God 
an'  Sawtan  ;  an'  the  fish  they  baud  fowk 
up  till  't— " 


94 


MALCOLM. 


"  Do  you  mean  that  the  herrings  help 
you  to  fight  for  God  ?"  said  Lady  Flori- 
mel  with  a  superior  smile. 

"Aither  for  God  or  for  the  deevil,  my 
leddy — that  depen's  upo'  the  fowk  them- 
sel's.  I  say  it  hauds  them  up  to  fecht, 
an'  the  thing  maun  be  fouchtep  oot. 
Fowk  to  fecht  maun  live,  an'  the  herrin' 
hauds  the  life  i'  them,  an'  sae  the  catch- 
in'  o'  the  herrin'  comes  in  to  be  a  pairt 
o'  the  battle." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  more  sensible  to  say 
that  the  battle  is  between  the  fishermen 
and  the  sea,  for  the  sake  of  their  wives 
and  children  ?"  suggested  Lady  Florimel 
supremely. 

"  Na,  my  leddy,  it  wadna  be  half  sae 
sensible,  for  it  wadna  justifee  the  grandur 
that  hings  ower  the  fecht.  The  battle 
wi'  the  sea  's  no  sae  muckle  o'  an  affair. 
An',  'deed,  gien  it  warna  that  the  wives 
an'  the  verra  weans  hae  themsel's  to  fecht 
i'  the  same  battle  o'  guid  an'  ill,  I  dinna 
see  the  muckle  differ  there  wad  be  atween 
them  an'  the  fish,  nor  what  for  they  sudna 
ate  ane  anither  as  the  craturs  i'  the  wat- 
ter  du.  But  gien  't  be  the  battle,  I  ^ay, 
there  can  be  no  pomp  o'  sea  or  sky  ower 
gran'  for  't ;  an'  it's  a'  weel  waured  [ex- 
pended) gien  it  but  baud  the  gude  anes 
merry  an'  strong,  an'  up  to  their  wark. 
For  that,  weel  may  the  sun  shine  a  celes- 
tial rosy  reid,  an'  weel  may  the  boatie 
row,  an'  weel  may  the  stars  luik  doon, 
blinkin'  an'  luikin'  again — ilk  ane  duin' 
its  bonny  pairt  to  mak  a  man  a  richt- 
hertit,  guid-willed  sodger!" 

"And,  pray,  what  may  be  your  rank 
in  this  wonderful  army .?"  asked  Lady 
Florimel,  with  the  air  and  tone  of  one 
humoring  a  lunatic. 

"I'm  naething  but  a  raw  recruit,  my 
leddy  ;  but  gien  I  hed  my  chice,  I  wad 
be  piper  to  my  reg'ment." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  wad  mak  sangs.  Dinna  lauch  at 
me,  my  leddy,  for  they're  the  best  kin' 
o'  weapon  for  the  wark  'at  I  ken.  But 
I'm  no  a  makar  [poet),  an*  maun  con- 
tent myscl'  wi'  duin'  my  wark  as  I  fin' 
it." 

"Then  why,"  Said  Lady  Floiimel,  with 
the  conscious  right  of  social  superiority 
to  administer  good  counsel — "why  don't 


you  work  harder,  and  get  a  better  house, 
and  wear  better  clothes  ?" 

Malcolm's  mind  was  so  full  of  far 
other  and  weightier  things  that  the  ques- 
tion bewildered  him  ;  but  he  gi^appled 
with  the  reference  to  his  clothes. 

"'Deed,  my  leddy,"  he  returned,  "ye 
may  weel  say  that,  seein'  ye  was  never 
aboord  a  herrin'-boat !  but  gien  ye  ance 
saw  the  inside  o'  ane  fu'  o'  fish,  whaur  a 
body  gangs  slidderin'  aboot,  maybe  up 
to  the  middle  o'  's  leg  in  wamlin'  herrin', 
an'  the  neist  meenute,  maybe,  weet  to 
the  skin  wi'  the  splash  o'  a  muckle  jaw 
[wave),  ye  micht  think  the  claes  guid 
eneuch  for  the  wark — though  ill  fit,  I 
confess  wi'  shame,  to  come  afore  yer 
leddyship." 

"  I  thought  you  only  fished  about  close 
by  the  shore  in  a  little  boat ;  I  didn't 
know  you  went  with  the  rest  of  the  fish- 
ermen :  that's  very  dangerous  work — 
isn't  it?" 

"No  ower  dangerous,  my  leddy. 
There's  some  gangs  doon  ilka  sizzon ; 
but  it's  a'  i'  the  w'y  o'  your  wark." 

"  Then  how  is  it  you're  not  gone  fish- 
ing to-night?" 

"  She  's  a  new  boat,  an'  there's  anither 
day's  wark  on  her  afore  we  win  oot. — 
Wadna  ye  like  a  row  the  nicht,  my 
leddy  ?" 

"No,  certainly;  it's  much  too  late." 

"  It  '11  be  nana  mirker  nor  'tis ;  but  I 
reckon  ye're  richt.  I  cam  ower  by  jist 
to  see  whether  ye  wadna  like  to  gang 
wi'  the  boats  a  bit ;  but  yer  leddyship 
set  me  aff  thinkin',  an'  that  pat  it  oot  o' 
my  heid." 

"  It's  too  late  now,  anyhow.  Come  to- 
morrow evening,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can't 
go  with  you." 

"  I  canna,  my  leddy  —  that's  the  fash 
o'  't!     I  maun  gang  wi'  Blue  Peter  the 
morn's  nicht.     It  was  my  last  chance,^ 
I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"  It's  not  of  the  slightest  consequence," 
Lady  Florimel  returned ;  and,  bidding 
him  good-night,  she  shut  and  locked  the 
door. 

The  same  instant  she  vanished,  for  the 
tunnel  was  now  quite  dark.  Malcolm 
turned  with  a  sigh,  and  took  his  way 
slowly  homeward  along  the  top  of  the 


MALCOLM. 


95 


dune.  All  was  dim  about  him — dim  in 
the  heavens,  where  a  thin  veil  of  gray 
had  gathered  over  the  blue  ;  dim  on  the 
ocean,  where  the  stars  swayed  and  swung, 
in  faint  flashes  of  dissolving  radiance, 
cast  loose  like  ribbons  of  seaweed  ;  dim 
all  along  the  shore,  where  the  white  of 
the  breaking  wavelet  melted  into  the 
yellow  sand  ;  and  dim  in  his  own  heart, 
where  the  manner  and  words  of  the  lady 
had  half  hidden  her  starry  reflex  with  a 
chilling  mist. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 
THE   FEAST. 

To  the  entertainment  which  the  mar- 
quis and  Lady  Florimel  had  resolved  to 
give,  all  classes  and  conditions  in  the 
neighborhood  now  began  to  receive  in- 
vitations— shopkeepers,  there  called  mer- 
chants, and  all  socially  above  them,  in- 
dividually, by  notes,  in  the  name  of  the 
marquis  and  Lady  Florimel,  but  in  the 
handwriting  of  Mrs.  Crathie  and  her 
daughters ;  and  the  rest  generally,  by 
the  sound  of  bagpipes  and  proclamation 
from  the  lips  of  Duncan  MacPhail.  To 
the  satisfaction  of  Johnny  Bykes,  the  ex- 
clusion of  improper  persons  was  left  in 
the  hands  of  the  gatekeepers. 

The  thing  had  originated  with  the  fac- 
tor. The  old  popularity  of  the  lords  of 
the  land  had  vanished  utterly  during  the 
life  of  the  marquis's  brother,  and  Mr. 
Crathie,  being  wise  in  his  generation, 
sought  to  initiate  a  revival  of  it  by  hint- 
ing the  propriety  of  some  general  hos- 
pitality, a  suggestion  which  the  marquis 
was  anything  but  loath  to  follow.  For 
the  present  Lord  Lossie,  although  as  un- 
ready as  most  men  to  part  with  anything 
he  cared  for,  could  yet  cast  away  mag- 
nificently, and  had  always  greatly  prized 
a  reputation  for  liberality. 

For  the  sake  of  the  fishermen,  the  first 
Saturday  after  the  commencement  of  the 
home-fishing  was  appointed.  The  few 
serious  ones,  mostly  Methodists,  objected 
on  the  ground  of  the  proximity  of  the 
Sunday ;  but  their  attitude  was,  if  pos- 
sible, of  still  less  consequence  in  the 
eyes  of  their  neighbors  that  it  was  well 


known  they  would  in  no  case  have  ac- 
cepted such  an  invitation. 

The  day  dawned  propitious.  As  early 
as  five  o'clock,  Mr.  Crathie  was  abroad, 
booted  and  spurred — now  directing  the 
workmen  who  were  setting  up  tents  and 
tables  ;  now  conferring  with  house-stew- 
ard, butler  or  cook ;  now  mounting  his 
horse  and  galloping  off  to  the  home- 
farm  or  the  distillery,  or  into  the  town  to 
the  Lossie  Arms,  where  certain  guests 
fi-om  a  distance  were  to  be  accommo- 
dated, and  whose  landlady  had  under- 
taken the  superintendence  of  certain 
of  the  victualing  departments  ;  for  canny 
Mr.  Crathie  would  not  willingly  h^ve  the 
meanest  guest  ask  twice  for  anything  he 
wanted — so  invaluable  did  he  consider 
a  good  word  from  the  humblest  quarter^ 
and  the  best  labors  of  the  French  cook, 
even  had  he  reverenced  instead  of  de- 
spising Scottish  dishes,  would  have  ill- 
sufficed  for  the  satisfaction  of  appetites 
critically  appreciative  of  hotch-potch, 
sheep's  head,  haggis  and  black  puddings. 

The  neighboring  nobility  and  landed 
gentlemen,  the  professional  guests  also, 
including  the  clergy,  were  to  eat  with  the 
marquis  in  the  great  hall.  On  the  grass 
near  the  house  tents  were  erected  for  the 
burgesses  of  the  burgh  and  the  tenants  of 
the  marquis's  farms.  I  would  have  said 
on  tke  lawn,  but  there  was  no  lawn 
proper  about  the  place,  the  ground  was 
so  picturesquely  broken — in  parts  with 
all  but  precipices — and  so  crowded  with 
trees.  Hence  its  aspect  was  specially 
unlike  that  of  an  English  park  and 
grounds.  The  whole  was  Celtic  as  dis- 
tinguished in  character  from  Saxon.  For 
the  lake-like  lawn,  for  the  wide  sweeps 
of  airy  room  in  which  expand  the  mighty 
boughs  of  solitary  trees,  for  the  filmy 
gray-blue  distances,  and  the  far-off  seg- 
ments of  horizon,  here  were  the  tree- 
crowded  grass,  the  close  windings  of  the 
long  glen  of  the  burn,  heavily  overshad- 
owed, and  full  of  mystery  and  cover,  but 
leading  at  last  to  the  widest  vantage  of 
outlook — the  wild  heathery  hill  down 
which  it  drew  its  sharp  furrow  ;  while,  in 
front  of  the  house,  beyond  hidden  river, 
and  plane  of  tree-tops,  and  far-sunk  shore 
with  its  dune  and  its  bored  crag  and  its 


96. 


MALCOLM. 


tortuous  caves,  lay  the  great  sea,  a  pout- 
ing under  lip,  met  by  the  thin,  repose- 
ful— shall  I  say  sorrowful  ? — upper  lip  of 
the  sky. 

A  bridge  of  stately  span,  level  with  the 
sweep  in  front,  honorable  embodiment 
of  the  savings  of  a  certain  notable  count- 
ess, one  end  resting  on  the  same  rock 
with  the  house,  their  foundations  almost 
in  contact,  led  across  the  burn  to  more 
and  more  trees,  their  roots  swathed  in 
the  finest  grass,  through  which  ran  broad 
carriage  drives  and  nan-ower  footways, 
hard  and  smooth  with  yellow  gravel. 
Here  amongst  the  trees  were  set  long 
tables.for  the  fishermen,  mechanics  and 
farm-laborers.  Here  also  was  the  place 
appointed  for  the  piper. 

As  the  hour  drew  near,  the  guests  came 
trooping  in  at  every  entrance.  By  the 
sea-gate  came  the  fisher-folk,  many  of 
tlie  men  in  the  blue  jersey,  the  women 
mostly  in  short  print  gowns  of  large  pat- 
terns— the  married  with  huge,  wide-frilled 
caps,  and  the  unmarried  with  their  hair 
gathered  in  silken  nets :  bonnets  there 
were  very  few.  Each  group  that  entered 
had  a  joke  or  a  jibe  for  Johnny  Bykes, 
which  he  met  in  varying  but  always  surly 
fashion — in  that  of  utter  silence  in  the  case 
of  Duncan  and  Malcolm,  at  which  the 
former  was  indignant,  the  latter  merry. 
By  the  town-gate  came  the  people  of 
Portlossie.  By  the  new  main  entrance 
from  the  high  road  beyond  the  town, 
through  lofty  Greekish  gates,  came  the 
lords  and  lairds,  in  yellow  coaches,  gigs 
and  post-chaises.  By  another  gate,  far 
up  the  glen,  came  most  of  the  country- 
folk, some  walking,  some  riding,  some 
driving,  all  merry  and  with  the  best  in- 
tentions of  enjoying  themselves.  As  the 
common  people  approached  the  house, 
they  were  directed  to  their  different  tables 
by  the  sexton,  for  he  knew  everybody. 

The  marquis  was  early  on  the  ground, 
going  about  amongst  his  guests,  and  show- 
ing a  friendly  off-hand  courtesy  which 
prejudiced  every  one  in  his  favor.  Lady 
Florimel  soon  joined  him,  and  a  certain 
frank  way  she  inherited  from  her  father, 
joined  to  the  great  beauty  her  mother  had 
given  her,  straightway  won  all  hearts. 
She  spoke  to  Duncan  with  cordiality :  the 


moment  he  heard  her  voice,  he  pulled 
off  his  bonnet,  put  it  under  his  arm,  and 
responded  with  what  I  can  find  no  better 
phrase  to  describe  than — a  profuse  dig- 
nity. Malcolm  she  favored  with  a  smile 
which  swelled  his  heart  with  pride  and 
devotion.  The  bold-faced  countess  next 
appeared :  she  took  the  marquis's  other 
arm,  and  nodded  to  his  guests  conde- 
scendingly and  often,  but  seemed,  after 
every  nod,  to  throw  her  head  farther  back 
than  before.  Then  to  haunt  the  goings 
of  Lady  Florimel  came  Lord  Meikleham, 
receiving  little  encouragement,  but  eager 
after  such  crumbs  as  he  could  gather. 
Suddenly  the  great  bell  under  the  highest 
of  the  gilded  vanes  rang  a  loud  peal,  and 
the  marquis  having  led  his  chief  guests 
to  the  hall,  as  soon  as  he  was  seated  the 
tables  began  to  be  served  simultaneously. 

At  that  where  Malcolm  sat  with  Dun- 
can grace  was  grievously  foiled  by  the 
latter,  for,  unaware  of  what  was  going 
on,  he  burst  out,  at  the  request  of  a  wag- 
gish neighbor,  with  a  tremendous  blast, 
of  which  the  company  took  advantage  to 
commence  operations  at  once,  and  pres- 
ently the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  and 
spoons  was  the  sole  sound  to  be  heard 
in  that  division  of  the  feast :  across  the 
valley,  from  the  neighborhood  of  the 
house,  came  now  and  then  a  faint  peal 
of  laughter,  for  there  they  knew  how  to 
be  merry  while  they  ate ;  but  here,  the 
human  element  was  in  abeyance,  for 
people  who  work  hard  seldom  talk  while 
they  eat.  From  the  end  of  an  overhang- 
ing bough  a  squirrel  looked  at  them  for 
one  brief  moment,  wondering  perhaps 
that  they  should  not  prefer  cracking  a 
nut  in  private,  and  vanished ;  but  the 
birds  kept  singing,  and  the  scents  of  the 
flowers  came  floating  up  from  the  garden 
below,  and  the  burn  went  on  with  its  own 
noises  and  its  own  silences,  drifting  the 
froth  of  its  last  passion  down  toward  the 
doors  of  the  world. 

In  the  hall,  ancient  jokes  soon  began 
to  flutter  their  moulted  wings,  and  musty 
compliments  to  offer  themselves  for  the 
acceptance  of  the  ladies,  and  meet  with 
a  reception  varied  by  temperament  and 
experience :  what  the  bold-faced  count- 
ess heard  with  a  hybrid  contortion,  half 


MALCOLM. 


97 


sneer  and  half  smile,  would  have  made 
Lady  Florimel  stare  out  of  big  refusing 
eyes. 

Those  more  immediately  around  the 
marquis  were  soon  laughing  over  the 
story  of  the  trick  he  had  played  the  blind 
piper,  and  of  the  apology  he  had  had 
to  make  in  consequence ;  and  perhaps 
something  better  than  mere  curiosity 
had  to  do  with  the  wish  of  several  of  the 
guests  to  see  the  old  man  and  his  grand- 
son. The  marquis  said  the  piper  him- 
self would  take  care  they  should  not 
miss  him,  but  he  would  send  for  the 
young  fellow,  who  was  equally  fitted  to 
amuse  them,  being  quite  as  much  of  a 
character  in  his  way  as  the  other. 

He  spoke  to  the  man  behind  his  chair, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Malcolm  made  his 
appearance,  following  the  messenger. 

"Malcolm,"  said  the  marquis  kindly, 
"  I  want  you  to  keep  your  eyes  open,  and 
see  that  no  mischief  is  done  about  the 
place." 

"I  dinna  think  there's  ane  o'  oor  ain 
fowk  wad  dee  ony  mischeef,  my  lord," 
answered  Malcolm  ;  "but  whan  ye  keep 
open  yett,  ye  canna  be  sure  wha  wins  in, 
'specially  wi'  sic  a  gowk  as  Johnny  Bykes 
at  ane  o'  them.  No  'at  he  wad  wrang 
yer  lordship  a  hair,  my  lord !" 

"At  all  events  you'll  be  on  the  alert," 
said  the  marquis. 

"  I  wull  that,  my  lord.  There's  twa  or 
three  aboot  a'ready  'at  I  dinna  a'thegither 
like  the  leuks  o'.  They're  no  like  coun- 
try-fovvk,  an'  they're  no  fisher-fowk.  It's 
no  far  aff  the  time  o'  year  whan  the 
gypsies  are  i'  the  w'y  o'  payin'  's  a  veesit, 
an'  they  may  ha'  come  in  at  the  Binn 
yett  {gate),  whaur  there's  nane  but  an 
auld  wife  to  baud  them  oot." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  marquis,  who 
had  no  fear  about  the  behavior  of  his 
guests,  and  had  only  wanted  a  color  for 
his  request  of  Malcolm's  presence.  "  In 
the  mean  time,"  he  added,  "we  are  rather 
short-handed  here.  Just  give  the  butler 
a  little  assistance — will  you  ?" 

"Willin'ly  my  lord,"  answered  Mal- 
colm, forgetting  altogether,  in  the  pros- 
pect of  being  useful  and  within  sight  of 
Lady  Florimel,  that  he  had  \'^x\i  half- 
finished  his  own  dinner.  The  butler, 
7 


who  had  already  had  an  opportunity  of 
admiring  his  aptitude,  was  glad  enough 
to  have  his  help,  and  after  this  day  used 
to  declare  that  in  a  single  week  he  could 
make  him  a  better  servant  than  any  of 
the  men  who  waited  at  table.  It  was 
indeed  remarkable  how,  with  such  a 
limited  acquaintance  with  the  many 
modes  of  an  artificial  life,  he  was  yet, 
by  quickness  of  sympathetic  insight,  ca- 
pable not  only  of  divining  its  require- 
ments, but  of  distinguishing,  amid  the 
multitude  of  appliances  around,  those 
fitted  to  their  individual  satisfaction. 

It  was  desirable,  however,  that  the  sit- 
ting in  the  hall  should  not  be  prolonged, 
and  after  a  few  glasses  of  wine  the  mar- 
quis rose  and  went  to  make  the  round 
of  the  other  tables.  Taking  them  in 
order,  he  came  last  to  those  of  the  rustics, 
mechanics  and  fisher-folk.  These  had 
advanced  considerably  in  their  potations, 
and  the  fun  was  loud.  Kis  appearance 
was  greeted  with  shouts,  into  which  Dun- 
can struck  with  a  paean  from  his  pipes  ; 
but  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult,  one  of 
the  oldest  of  the  fisherman  stood  up,  and 
in  a  voice  accustomed  to  battle  with  windy 
uproars,  called  for  silence.  He  then  ad- 
dressed their  host. 

"Ye'll  jist  mak  's  prood  by  drinkin'  a 
tum'lerwi  's,  yer  lordship,"  he  said.  "It's 
no  ilka  day  we  hae  the  honor  o'  yer  lord- 
ship's company." 

"Or  I  of  yours,"  returned  the  marquis 
with  hearty  courtesy.  "  I  will  do  it  with 
pleasure — or  at  least  a  glass  :  my  head's 
not  so  well  seasoned  as  some  of  yours." 

"Gien  yer  lordship's  hed  hed  as  mony 
blasts  o'  nicht  win',  an'  as  mony  jaups 
o'  cauld  sea-watter  aboot  its  lugs  as  oors,. 
it  wad  hae  been  fit  to  stan'  as  muckle  o"" 
the  barley  bree  as  the  stievest  o'  the  lot,. 
I  s'  warran'." 

"I  hope  so,"  returned  Lord  Lossie„ 
who,  having  taken  a  seat  at  the  end  of 
the  table,  was  now  mixing  a  tumbler  of 
toddy.  As  soon  as  he  had  filled  his- 
glass,  he  rose  and  drank  to  the  fisher- 
men of  Portlossie,  their  wives  and  their 
sweethearts,  wishing  them  a  mighty  con- 
quest of  herring,  and  plenty  of  children 
to  keep  up  the  breed  and  the  war  on  the 
fish.   His  speech  was  received  with  hearty 


MALCOLM. 


cheers,  during  which  he  sauntered  away 
to  rejoin  his  friends. 

Many  toasts  followed,  one  of  which, 
"Damnation  to  the  dog-fish!"  gave  op- 
portunity to  a  wag,  seated  near  the  piper, 
to  play  upon  the  old  man's  well-known 
foible  by  adding,  "an'  Cawmill  o'  Glen- 
lyon  ;"  whereupon  Duncan,  who  had  by 
this  time  taken  more  whisky  than  was 
good  for  him,  rose,  and  made  a  rambling 
speech,  in  which  he  returned  thanks  for 
the  imprecation,  adding  thereto  the  hope 
that  never  might  one  of  the  brood  ac- 
cursed go  down  with  honor  to  the  grave. 

The  fishermen  listened  with  respectful 
silence,  indulging  only  in  nods,  winks 
and  smiles  for  the  interchange  of  amuse- 
ment, until  the  utterance  of  the  wish  re- 
corded, when,  apparently  carried  away 
for  a  moment  by  his  eloquence,  they 
broke  into  loud  applause.  But  from  the 
midst  of  it,  a  low,  gurgling  laugh  close 
by  him  reached  Duncan's  ear :  excited 
though  he  was  with  strong  drink  and 
approbation,  he  shivered,  sunk  into  his 
seat,  and  clutched  at  his  pipes  convul- 
sively, as  if  they  had  been  a  weapon  of 
defence. 

"Malcolm!  Malcolm,  my  son!"  he 
muttered  feebly,  "tere  is  a  voman  will  pe 
laughing !  She  is  a  paad  voman  :  she 
makes  me  cold !" 

Finding  from  the  no -response  that 
Malcolm  had  left  his  side,  he  sat  motion- 
less, drawn  into  himself,  and  struggling 
to  suppress  the  curdling  shiver.  Some 
of  the  women  gathered  about  him,  but 
he  assured  them  it  was  nothing  more 
than  a  passing  sickness. 

Malcolm's  attention  had,  a  few  minutes 
before,  been  drawn  to  two  men  of  some- 
■what  peculiar  appearance,  who,  applaud- 
ing louder  than  any,  only  pretended  to 
■drink,  and  occasionally  interchanged 
glances  of  intelligence.  It  was  one  of 
these  peculiar  looks  that  first  attracted 
his  notice.  He  soon  discovered  that  they 
.had  a  comrade  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  who  apparently,  like  themselves, 
had  little  or  no  acquaintance  with  any 
one  near  him.  He  did  not  like  either 
their  countenances  or  their  behavior,  and 
resolved  to  watch  them.  In  order  there- 
fore to  be  able  to  follow  them  when  thcv 


moved,  as  he  felt  certain  they  would  be- 
fore long,  without  attracting  their  atten- 
tion he  left  the  table  and  making  a  cir- 
cuit took  up  his  position  behind  a  neigh- 
boring tree.  Hence  it  came  that  he  was 
not,  at  the  moment  of  his  need,  by  his 
grandfather's  side,  whither  he  had  re- 
turned as  soon  as  dinner  was  over  in  the 
hall. 

Meantime  it  became  necessary  to  check 
the  drinking  by  the  counter-attraction  of 
the  dance  :  Mr.  Crathie  gave  orders  that 
a  chair  should  be  mounted  on  a  table  for 
Duncan,  and  the  young  hinds  and  fisher- 
men were  soon  dancing  zealously  with 
the  girls  of  their  company  to  his  strath- 
speys and  reels.  The  other  divisions  of 
the  marquis's  guests  made  merry  to  the 
sound  of  a  small  brass  band,  a  harp  and 
two  violins. 

When  the  rest  forsook  the  toddy  for  the 
reel,  the  objects  of  Malcolm's  suspicion 
remained  at  the  table,  not  to  drink,  but 
to  draw  nearer  to  each  other  and  confer. 
At  length,  when  the  dancers  began  to 
return  in  quest  of  liquor,  they  rose  and 
went  away  loiteringly  through  the  trees. 
As  the  twilight  was  now  deepening,  Mal- 
colm found  it  difficult  to  keep  them  in 
sight,  but  for  the  same  reason  he  was 
able  the  more  quickly  to  glide  after  them 
from  tree  to  tree.  It  was  almost  moon- 
rise,  he  said  to  himself,  and  if  they  med- 
itated mischief,  now  was  their  best  time. 

Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  run- 
ning feet,  and  in  a  moment  more  spied 
the  unmistakable  form  of  the  mad  laird 
darting  through  the  thickening  dusk  of 
the  trees  with  gestures  of  wild  horror. 
As  he  passed  the  spot  where  Malcolm 
stood,  he  cried  out  in  a  voice  like  a  sup- 
pressed shriek,  "  It's  my  mither  !  It's  my 
mither  !    I  dinna  ken  whaur  I  come  frae." 

His  sudden  appearance  and  outcry  so 
startled  Malcolm  that  for  a  moment  he 
forgot  his  watch,  and  when  he  looked 
again  the  men  had  vanished.  Not  hav- 
ing any  clue  to  their  intent,  and  knowing 
only  that  on  such  a  night  the  house  was 
nearly  defenceless,  he  turned  at  once  and 
made  for  it.  Ashe  approached  the  front, 
coming  over  the  bridge,  he  fancied  he 
saw  a  figure  disappear  through  the  en- 
trance, and  quickened  his  pace.     Just  as 


MALCOLM. 


99 


he  reached  it,  he  heard  a  door  bang,  and 
supposing  it  to  be  that  which  shut  off  the 
second  hall,  whence  rose  the  principal 
staircase,  he  followed  this  vaguest  of 
hints,  and  bounded  to  the  top  of  the  stair. 
Entering  the  first  passage  he  came  to,  he 
found  it  almost  dark,  with  a  half-open 
door  at  the  end,  through  which  shone  a 
gleam  from  some  window  beyond:  this 
light  was  plainly  shut  off  for  a  moment, 
as  if  by  some  one  passing  the  window. 
He  hurried  after — noiselessly,  for  the 
floor  was  thickly  carpeted — and  came  to 
the  foot  of  a  winding  stone  stair.  Afraid 
beyond  all  things  of  doing  nothing,  and 
driven  by  the  formless  conviction  that 
if  he  stopped  to  deliberate  he  certainly 
should  do  nothing,  he  shot  up  the  dark 
screw  like  an  ascending  bubble,  passed 
the  landing  of  the  second  floor  without 
observing  it,  and  arrived  in  the  attic  re- 
gions of  the  ancient  pile,  under  low,  ir- 
regular ceilings,  here  ascending  in  cones, 
there  coming  down  in  abrupt  triangles, 
or  sloping  away  to  a  hidden  meeting  with 
the  floor  in  distant  corners.  His  only 
light  was  the  cold  blue  glimmer  from 
here  and  there  a  storm-window  or  a  sky- 
light. As  the  conviction  of  failure  grew 
on  him,  the  ghostly  feeling  of  the  place 
began  to  invade  him.  All  was  vague, 
forsaken  and  hopeless  as  a  dreary  dream, 
with  the  superadded  miserable  sense  of 
lonely  sleep-walking.  I  suspect  that  the 
feeling  we  call  ghostly  is  but  the  sense 
of  abandonment  in  the  lack  of  compan- 
ion life  ;  but  be  this  as  it  may,  Malcolm 
was  glad  enough  to  catch  sight  of  a  gleam 
as  from  a  candle  at  the  end  of  a  long, 
low  passage  on  which  he  had  come  after 
mazy  wandering.  Another  similar  pas- 
sage crossed  its  end,  somewhere  in  which 
must  be  the  source  of  the  light :  he  crept 
toward  it,  and,  laying  himself  flat  on  the 
floor,  peeped  round  the  corner.  His  very 
heart  stopped  to  listen :  seven  or  eight 
yards  from  him,  with  a  small  lantern  in 
her  hand,  stood  a  short  female  figure, 
which,  the  light  falling  for  a  moment  on 
her  soft  evil  countenance,  he  recognized 
as  Mrs.  Catanach's.  Beside  her  stood  a 
tall  graceful  figure,  draped  in  black  from 
head  to  foot.  Mrs.  Catanach  was  speak- 
ing in  a  low  tone,  and  what  Malcolm 


was  able  to  catch  was  evidently  the  close 
of  a  conversation. 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  ye  may  be  sure,  my 
leddy,"  she  said.  "There's  something  no 
canny  aboot  the  cratur,  an'  doobtless  ye 
was  an  ill-used  wuman,  an'  ye're  i'  the 
richt.  But  it's  a  some  fearsome  ventur, 
an'  may  be  luikit  intill,  ye  ken.  There 
I  s'  be  yer  scoug.  Lippen  to  me,  an'  ye 
s'  no  repent  it." 

As  she  ended  speaking,  she  turned  to 
the  door,  and  drew  from  it  a  key,  evi- 
dently after  a  foiled  attempt  to  unlock  it 
therewith  ;  for  from  a  bunch  she  carried 
she  now  made  choice  of  another,  and 
was  already  fumbling  with  it  in  the  key- 
hole, when  Malcolm  bethought  himself 
that,  whatever  her  further  intent,  he 
ought  not  to  allow  her  to  succeed  in 
opening  the  door.  He  therefore  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet,  and  stepping  softly  out 
into  the  passage,  sent  his  round  blue 
bonnet  spinning  with  such  a  certain  aim 
that  it  flew  right  against  her  head.  She 
gave  a  cry  of  terror,  smothered  by  the 
sense  of  evil  secrfesy,  and  dropped  her 
lantern.  It  went  out.  Malcolm  pattered 
with  his  hands  on  the  floor,  and  began 
to  howl  frightfully.  Her  companion  had 
already  fled,  and  Mrs.  Catanach  picked 
up  her  lantern  and  followed.  But  her 
flight  was  soft-footed,  and  gave  sign  only 
in  the  sound  of  her  garments  and  a  clank 
or  two  of  her  keys.  • 

Gifted  with  a  good  sense  of  relative 
position,  Malcolm  was  able  to  find  his 
way  back  to  the  hall  without  much  dif- 
ficulty, and  met  no  one  on  the  way. 
When  he  stepped  into  the  open  air  a 
round  moon  was  visible  through  the  trees, 
and  their  shadows  were  lying  across  the 
sward.  The  merriment  had  grown  loud- 
er, for  a  good  deal  of  whisky  having 
been  drunk  by  men  of  all  classes,  hilar- 
ity had  ousted  restraint,  and  the  separa- 
tion of  classes  having  broken  a  little, 
there  were  many  stragglers  from  the 
higher  to  the  lower  divisions,  whence  the 
area  of  the  more  boisterous  fun  had  con- 
siderably widened.  Most  of  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  were  dancing  in  the  cheq- 
uer of  the  trees  and  moonlight,  but,  a 
little  removed  from  the  rest,  Lady  Flori- 
mel  was  seated  under  a  tree,  with  Lord 


lOO 


MALCOLM. 


Meikleham  by  her  side,  probably  her 
partner  in  the  last  dance.  She  was  look- 
ing at  the  moon,  which  shone  upon  her 
from  between  two  low  branches,  and 
there  was  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes  and  a 
luminousness  upon  her  cheek  which  to 
Malcolm  did  not  seem  to  come  from  the 
moon  only.  He  passed  on,  with  the 
first  pang  of  jealousy  in  his  heart,  feel- 
ing now  for  the  first  time  that  the  space 
between  Lady  Florimel  and  himself  was 
indeed  a  gulf  But  he  cast  the  whole 
thing  from  him  for  the  time  with  an  in- 
ward scorn  of  his  foolishness,  and  hur- 
ried on  from  group  to  group  to  find  the 
marquis. 

Meeting  with  no  trace  of  him,  and 
thinking  he  might  be  in  the  flower-  gar- 
den, which  a  few  rays  of  the  moon  now 
reached,  he  descended  thither.  But  he 
searched  it  through  with  no  better  suc- 
cess, and  at  the  farthest  end  was  on  the 
point  of  turning  to  leave  it  and  look  else- 
where, when  he  heard  a  moan  of  stifled 
agony  on  the  other  side  of  a  high  wall 
which  here  bounded  the  garden.  Climb- 
ing up  an  espalier,  he  soon  reached  the 
top,  and  looking  down  on  the  other  side, 
to  his  horror  and  rage  espied  the  mad 
laird  on  the  ground,  and  the  very  men 
of  whom  he  had  been  in  pursuit  stand- 
ing over  him  and  brutally  tormenting 
him,  apparently  in  order  to  make  him 
get  up  and  go  along  with  them.  One 
was  kicking  him,  another  pulling  his 
head  this  way  and  that  by  the  hair,  and 
the  third  punching  and  poking  his  hump, 
which  last  cruelty  had  probably  drawn 
from  him  the  cry  Malcolm  had  heard. 

Three  might  be  too  many  for  him  :  he 
descended  swiftly,  found  some  stones, 
and  a  stake  from  a  bed  of  sweet-peas, 
then  climbing  up  again,  took  such  effect- 
ual aim  at  one  of  the  villains  that  he  fell 
without  uttering  a  sound.  Dropping  at 
once  from  the  wall,  he  rushed  at  the  two 
with  stick  upheaved. 

"  Dinna  be  in  sic  a  rage,  man,"  cried 
the  first,  avoiding  his  blow :  "  we're  aboot 
naething  ayont  the  lawfu'.  It's  only  the 
mad  laird.  We're  takin'  'im  to  the  asy- 
lum at  Ebberdeen.  By  the  order  o'  's 
ain  mither !" 


At  the  word  a  choking  scream  came 
from  the  prostrate  victim.  Malcolm  ut- 
tered a  huge  imprecation,  and  struck  at 
the  fellow  again,  who  now  met  him  in  a 
way  that  showed  it  was  noise  more  than 
wounds  he  had  dreaded.  Instantly  the 
other  came  up,  and  also  fell  upon  him 
with  vigor.  But  his  stick  was  too  much 
for  them,  and  at  length  one  of  them, 
crying  out,  "  It's  the  blin'  piper's  bas- 
tard—  I'll  mark  him  yet!"  took  to  his 
heels,  and  was  followed  by  his  com- 
panion. 

More  eager  after  rescue  than  punish- 
ment, Malcolm  turned  to  the  help  of  the 
laird,  whom  he  found  in  utmost  need  of 
his  ministrations — gagged,  and  with  his 
hands  tied  mercilessly  tight  behind  his 
back.  His  knife  quickly  released  him, 
but  the  poor  fellow  was  scarcely  less 
helpless  than  before.  He  clung  to  Mal- 
colm and  moaned  piteously,  every  mo- 
ment glancing  over  his  shoulder  in  ter- 
ror of  pursuit.  His  mouth  hung  open  as 
if  the  gag  were  still  tormenting  him;  now 
and  then  he  would  begin  his  usual  la- 
ment and  manage  to  say  "  I  dinna  ken  ;" 
but  when  he  attempted  the  whaitr,  his 
jaw  fell  and  hung  as  before.  Malcolm 
sought  to  lead  him  away,  but  he  held 
back,  moaning  dreadfully ;  then  Mal- 
colm would  have  him  sit  down  where 
they  were,  but  he  caught  his  hand  and 
pulled  him  away,  stopping  instantly,  how- 
ever, as  if  not  knowing  whither  to  turn 
from  the  fears  on  every  side.  At  length 
the  prostrate  enemy  began  to  move,  when 
the  laird,  who  had  been  unaware  of  his 
presence,  gave  a  shriek  and  took  to  his 
heels.  Anxious  not  to  lose  sight  of  him, 
Malcolm  left  the  wounded  man  to  take 
care  of  himself,  and  followed  him  up  the 
steep  side  of  the  little  valley. 

They  had  not'  gone  many  steps  from 
the  top  of  the  ascent,  however,  before  the 
fugitive  threw  himself  on  the  ground  ex- 
hausted, and  it  was  all  Malcolm  could  do 
to  get  him  to  the  town,  where,  unable  to 
go  a  pace  farther,  he  sank  down  on  Mrs 
Catanach's  doorstep.  A  light  was  burn- 
ing in  the  cottage,  but  Malcolm  would 
seek  shelter  for  him  anywhere  rathei 
than  with  her,  and,  in  terror  of  her  quick 


Malcolm: 


lOI 


ears,  caught  him  up  in  his  arms  hke  a 
child,  and  hurried  away  with  him  to  Miss 
Horn's. 

"  Eh,  sirs !"  exclaimed  Miss  Horn,  when 
she  opened  the  door — for  Jean  was  among 
the  merry-makers — "  wha  's  this  'at 's  kilt 
noo  ?" 

"  It 's  the — laird — Mr.  Stewart,"  return- 
ed Malcolm,  "  He  's  no  freely  kilt,  but 
nigh  han'." 

"Na!  weel  I  wat !  Come  in  an'  set 
him  doon  till  we  see,"  said  Miss  Horn, 
turning  and  leading  the  way  up  to  her 
little  parlor. 

There  Malcolm  laid  his  burden  on  the 
sofa  and  gave  a  brief  account  of  the  res- 
cue. 

"Lord  preserve  's,  Ma'colm!"  cried 
Miss  Horn,  as  soon  as  he  had  ended  his 
tale,  to  which  she  had  listened  in  silence 
with  fierce  eyes  and  threatening  nose  : 
"  isna  't  a  mercy  I  wasna  made  hke  some 
fowk,  or  I  couldna  ha'  bidden  to  see  the 
puir  fallow  misguidet  that  gait !  It  's  a 
special  mercy,  Ma'colm  MacPhail,  to  be 
made  wantin'  ony  sic  thing  as  feelin's." 

She  was  leaving  the  room  as  she  spoke 
— to  return  instantly  with  brandy.  The 
laird  swallowed  some  with  an  effort,  and 
began  to  revive. 

"  Eh,  sirs  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Horn,  re- 
garding him  now  more  narrowly — ^"but 
he's  in  an  awfu'  state  o'  dirt !  I  maun 
wash  his  face  an'  ban's,  an'  pit  him  till 's 
bed.  Could /^  helpaff  wi'  's  claes,  Ma'- 
colm ?  Though  I  haena  ony  feelin's,  I 
'm  jist  some  eerie-like  at  the  puir  body's 
back." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  what 
she  judged  a  safe  aside.  As  if  she  had 
been  his  mother,  she  washed  his  face  and 
hands  and  dried  them  tenderly,  the  laird 
submitting  like  a  child.  He  spoke  but 
one  word — when  she  took  him  by  the 
hand  to  lead  him  to  the  room  where  her 
cousin  used  to  sleep.  "  Father  o'lichts!" 
he  said,  and  no  more.  Malcolm  put  him 
to  bed,  where  he  lay  perfectly  still, 
whether  awake  or  asleep  they  could  not 
tell. 

He  then  set  out  to  go  back  to  Lossie 
House,  promising  to  return  after  he  had 
taken  his  grandfather  home  and  seen 
him  also  safe  in  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE   NIGHT   WATCH. 

When  Malcolm  returned,  Jean  had  re- 
tired for  the  night,  and  again  it  was  Miss 
Horn  who  admitted  him  and  led  him  to 
her  parlor.  It  was  a  low-ceiled  room, 
with  lean  spider-legged  furniture  and 
dingy  curtains.  Everything  in  it  was 
suggestive  of  a  comfort  slowly  vanishing. 
An  odor  of  withered  rose-leaves  pervaded 
the  air.  A  Japanese  cabinet  stood  in  one 
corner,  and  on  the  mantelpiece  a  pair  of 
Chinese  fans  with  painted  figures  whose 
faces  were  embossed  in  silk,  between 
which  ticked  an  old  French  clock,  whose 
supporters  were  a  shepherd  and  shep- 
herdess in  prettily  painted  china.  Long 
faded  as  was  everything  in  it,  the  room 
was  yet  very  rich  in  the  eyes  of  Malcolm, 
whose  home  was  bare  even  in  compari- 
son with  that  of  the  poorest  of  the  fisher- 
women  :  they  had  a  passion  for  orna- 
menting their  chimney-pieces  with  china 
ornaments,  and  their  dressers  with  the 
most  gorgeous  crockery  that  their  money 
could  buy — a  certain  metallic  orange  be- 
ing the  prevailing  hue ;  while  in  Dun- 
can's cottage,  where  woman  had  never 
initiated  the  taste,  there  was  not  even  a 
china  poodle  to  represent  the  finished 
development  of  luxury  in  the  combina- 
tion of  the  ugly  and  the  useless. 

Miss  Horn  had  made  a  little  fire  in  the 
old-fashioned  grate,  whose  bars  bellied 
out  like  a  sail  almost  beyond  the  narrow 
chimney-shelf,  and  a  tea-kettle  was  sing- 
ing on  the  hob,  while  a  decanter,  a  sugar- 
basin,  a  nutmeg-grater  and  other  needful 
things  on  a  tray  suggested  negus,  beyond 
which  Miss  Horn  never  went  in  the  mat- 
ter of  stimulants,  asserting  that,  as  she 
had  no  feelings,  she  never  required  any- 
thing stronger.  She  made  Malcolm  sit 
down  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire,  and 
mixing  him  a  tumbler  of  her  favorite 
drink,  began  to  question  him  about  the 
day,  and  how  things  had  gone. 

Miss  Horn  had  the  just  repute  of  dis- 
cretion, for,  gladly  hearing  all  the  news, 
she  had  the  rare  virtue  of  not  repeating 
things  to  the  prejudice  of  others  without 
some^^<^<^/ reason  for  so  doing  :  Malcolm 
therefore,  seated  thus  alone  with  her  in 
the  dead  of  the  night,  and  bound  to  her 


MALCOLM. 


by  the  bond  of  a  common  well-doing, 
had  no  hesitation  in  unfolding  to  her  all 
his  adventures  of  the  evening.  She  sat 
with  her  big  hands  in  her  lap,  making 
no  remark,  not  even  an  exclamation, 
while  he  went  on  with  the  tale  of  the 
garret ;  but  her  listening  eyes  grew — not 
larger — darker  and  fiercer  as  he  spoke ; 
the  space  between  her  nostrils  and  mouth 
widened  visibly  ;  the  muscles  knotted  on 
the  sides  of  her  neck ;  and  her  nose  curved 
more  and  more  to  the  shape  of  a  beak. 

"There's  some  deevilry  there!"  she 
said  at  length  after  he  had  finished, 
breaking  a  silence  of  some  moments, 
during  which  she  had  been  staring  into 
the  fire.  "Whaur  twa  ill  women  come 
thegither,  there  maun  be  the  auld  man 
himsel'  atween  them." 

"I  dinna  doobt  it,"  returned  Malcolm. 
"An'  ane  o'  them  's  an  ill  wuman,  sure 
eneuch ;  but  I  ken  naething  aboot  the 
tither — only  'at  she  maun  be  a  leddy,  by 
the  w'y  the  howdy -wife  spak  till  her." 

"The  waur  token,  whan  a  leddy  col- 
logues wi'  a  wuman  aneth  her  ain  sta- 
tion, an'  ane  'at  has  keppit  {^caught  in 
passing)  mony  a  secret  in  her  day,  an' 
by  her  callin'  has  had  mair  opportunity 
— no  to  say  farther — than  ither  fowk  o' 
duin'  ill  things !  An  gien  ye  dinna  ken 
her,  that's  no  rizzon  "at  /  sudna  hae  a 
groff  guiss  at  her  by  the  marks  ye  read 
afif  o'  her.  I'll  jist  hae  to  tell  ye  a  story 
sic  as  an  auld  wife  like  me  seldom  tells 
till  a  yoong  man  like  yersel'." 

"Yer  ain  bridle  sail  rule  my  tongue, 
mem,"  said  Malcolm. 

"I  s'  lippen  to  yer  discretion,"  said 
Miss  Horn,  and  straightway  began  : 
"Some  years  ago — an'  I  s'  warran'  it's 
weel  ower  twinty — that  same  wuman, 
Bawby  Cat'nach — wha  was  nae  hame- 
born  wuman,  nor  had  been  lang  aboot 
the  toon — comin'  as  she  did  frae  naebody 
kent  whaur,  'cep  maybe  it  was  the  mar- 
kis  'at  than  was — preshumed  to  mak  up 
to  me  i'  the  w'y  o'  frien'ly  acquaintance 
— sic  as  a  maiden  leddy  micht  hae  wi'  a 
howdy — an'  no  'at  she  forgot  her  proap- 
er  behavior  to  ane  like  mysel'.  But  I 
cudna  hae  bidden  (endured)  the  jaud, 
'cep  'at  I  had  rizzons  for  lattin'  her  jaw 
wag.     She  was  cunnin',  the  auld  vralch 


— no  that  auld,  maybe  aboot  forty — but 
I  was  ower  mony  for  her.  She  had  the 
design  to  win  at  something  she  thoucht 
I  kent,  an'  sae,  to  enteece  me  to  open 
my  pock,  she  opent  hers,  an'  tellt  me 
story  efter  story  aboot  this  neebor  an' 
that — a'  o'  them  things  'at  ouchtna  to 
ha'  been  true,  an'  'at  she  ouchtna  to  ha' 
loot  pass  her  lips  gien  they  war  true, 
seein'  she  cam  by  the  knowledge  o'  them 
as  she  said  she  did.  But  she  gat  nae- 
thin'  o'  me — the  fat-braint  cat ! — an'  she 
hates  me  like  the  verra  mischeef." 

Miss  Horn  paused  and  took  a  sip  of 
her  negus. 

"Ae  day  I  came  upon  her  sittin'  by 
the  ingle-neuk  i'  my  ain  kitchen,  haudin' 
a  close  an'  a  laich  confab  wi'  Jean.  I 
had  Jean  than,  an'  hoo  I  hae  keepit  the 
hizzy,  I  hardly  ken.  I  think  it  maun  be 
that,  haen'  nae  feelin's  o'  my  ain,  I  hae 
ower  muckle  regaird  to  ither  fowk's,  an' 
sae  I  never  likit  to  pit  her  awa'  wi'oot 
doonricht  provocation.  But  dinna  ye 
lippen  to  Jean,  Malcolm — na,  na  ! — At 
that  time,  my  cousin.  Miss  Grizel  Cam- 
mell — my  third  cousin,  she  was — had 
come  to  bide  wi'  me — a  bonny  yoong 
thing  as  ye  wad  see,  but  in  sair  ill  health ; 
an'  maybe  she  had  her  freits  [ivhifns), 
an'  maybe  no,  but  she  cudna  bide  to  see 
the  wuman  Cat'nach  aboot  the  place. 
An'  in  verra  trowth,  she  was  to  mysel' 
like  ane  o'  thae  ill-faured  birds — I  dinna 
min'  upo'  the  name  o'  them — 'at  hings 
ower  an  airmy  ;  for  wharever  there  was 
onybody  nae  weel  or  onybody  died,  there 
was  Bawby  Cat'nach.  I  hae  hard  o' 
creepin'  things  'at  veesits  fowk  'at  's  no 
weel — an'  Bawby  was,  an'  is,  ane  sic 
like !  Sae  I  was  angert  at  seein'  her 
colloguin'  wi'  Jean,  an'  I  cried  Jean  to 
me  to  the  door  o'  the  kitchie.  But  wi' 
that  up  jumps  Bawby,  an'  comin'  efter 
her,  says  to  me — says  she,  '  Eh,  Miss 
Horn  !  there's  terrible  news  :  Leddy  Los- 
sie's  deid  ! — she  's  been  three  ooks  dcid !' 
— '  Weel,'  says  I,  '  what's  sae  terrible 
aboot  that  ?'  For  ye  ken  I  never  had 
ony  feelin's,  an'  I  cud  see  naething  sae 
awfu'  aboot  a  body  deein'  i'  the  ord'nar' 
w'y  o'  natur  like.  'We'll  no  miss  her 
muckle  doon  here,'  says  I,  '  for  I  never 
hard  o'  her  bein'  at  the  Hoose  sin'  ever 


MALCOLM. 


ro3 


I  can  min'.' — '  But  that's  no  a','  says  she ; 
'  only  I  wad  be  laith  to  speyk  aboot  it  i' 
the  transe  [passage).  Lat  me  up  the  stair 
wi'  ye,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  mair.'  Weel,  pairtly 
'at  I  was  ta'en  by  surprise  like,  an'  pairt- 
ly 'at  I  wasna  sae  auld  as  I  am  noo,  an' 
pairtly  that  I  was  keerious  to  hear — ill  'at 
I  likit  her — what  neist  the  wuman  wad 
say,  I  did  as  I  ouchtna,  an'  turned  an' 
gaed  up  the  stair,  an'  loot  her  follow  me. 
Whan  she  cam  in,  she  pat  tu  the  door 
ahint  her,  an'  turnt  to  me,  an'  said — says 
she  :  '  An'  wha  's  deid  forbye,  think  ye  ?' 
— '  I  hae  hard  o'  naebody,'  I  answered. 
'  Wha  but  the  laird  o'  Gersefell !'  says 
she.  '  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  honest 
man  !'  says  I ;  for  a'body  likit  Mr.  Stew- 
art. '  An'  what^  think  ye  o'  't  ?'  says 
she,  wi'  a  runklin  o'  her  broos,  an'  a 
shak  o'  her  held,  an'  a  settin'  o'  her  roon' 
nieves  upo'  the  fat  hips  o'  her.  '  Think 
o'  't  T  says  I :  '  what  sud  I  think  o'  't, 
but  that  it's  the  wuU  o'  Providence  ?' 
Wi'  that  she  leuch  till  she  wabblet  a' 
ower  like  cauld  skink,  an'  says  she — 
'Weel,  that's  jist  what  it  is  no,  an'  that 
lat  me  tell  ye.  Miss  Horn  1'  I  glowert  at 
her,  maist  frichtit  into  believin'  she  was 
the  witch  fowk  ca'd  her.  '  Wha's  son  's 
the  hump-backit  cratur,'  says  she,  '  'at 
comes  in  i'  the  gig  whiles  wi'  the  groom- 
lad,  think  ye  ?' — '  Wha's  but  the  puir 
man's  'at's  deid  ?'  says  I.  '  Deil  a  bit  o' 
't !'  says  she,  '  an'  I  beg  yer  pardon  for 
mentionin'  o'  him,''  says  she.  An'  syne 
she  screwt  up  her  mou',  an'  com  closs 
up  till  me — for  I  wadna  sit  doon  mysel', 
an'  less  wad  I  bid  her,  an'  was  sorry 
eneuch  by  this  time  'at  I  had  broucht 
her  up  the  stair — an'  says  she,  layin'  her 
han'  upo'  my  airm  wi'  a  clap,  as  gien 
her  an'  me  was  to  be  freen's  upo'  sic  a 
gran'  foondation  o'  dirt  as  that ! — says 
she,  makin'  a  laich  toot-moot  o'  't — '  He's 
Lord  Lossie's !'  says  she,  an'  maks  a  face 
'at  micht  hae  turnt  a  cat  sick — only  by 
guid  luck  I  had  nae  feelin's.  '  An'  no 
suner  's  my  leddy  deid  nor  her  man  fol- 
lows her !'  says  she.  '  An'  what  do  ye 
mak  o'  that  ?'  says  she.  '  Ay,  what  do 
ye  mak  o'  t.'at  ?'  says  I  till  her  again. 
'  Ow  !  what  ken  I  ?'  says  she,  wi'  anither 
ill  leuk ;  an'  wi'  that  she  leuch  an'  turn- 
ed awa',  but  turned  back  again  or  she 


wan  to  the  door,  an'  says  she — '  Maybe 
ye  didna  ken  'at  she  was  broucht  to  bed 
hersel'  aboot  a  sax  ooks  ago  ?' — '  Puir 
leddy  !'  said  I,  thinkin'  mair  o'  her  evil 
report  nor  o'  the  pains  o'  childbirth. 
'  Ay,'  says  she,  wi'  a  deevilich  kin'  o'  a 
lauch,  like  in  spite  o'  hersel',  '  for  the 
bairn's  deid,  they  tell  me — as  bonny  a 
lad-bairn  as  ye  wad  see,  jist  ooncoamon  ! 
An'  whaur  div  ye  think  she  had  her 
doon-lying '  ?  Jist  at  Lossie  Hoose  !' 
Wi'  that  she  was  oot  at  the  door  wi'  a 
swag  o'  her  tail,  'an  doon  the  stair  to 
Jean  again.  I  was  jist  at  ane  mair  wi' 
anger  at  mysel'  'an  scunner  at  her,  an' 
was  in  twa  min's  to  gang  efter  her  an' 
turn  her  oot  o'  the  hoose,  her  an'  Jean 
thegither.  I  could  hear  her  snicherin' 
till  hersel'  as  she  gaed  doon  the  stair. 
My  verra  stamack  turned  at  the  poozh- 
onous  ted. 

"  I  canna  say  what  was  true  or  what 
was  fause  i'  the  scandal  o'  her  tale,  nor 
what  for  she  tuik  the  trouble  to  cairry  't 
to  me,  but  it  sune  cam  to  be  said  'at  the 
yoong  laird  was  but  half-witted  as  weel's 
humpit,  an'  'at  his  mither  cudna  bide 
him.  An'  certain  it  was  'at  the  puir  wee 
chap  cud  as  little  bide  his  mither.  Gien 
she  cam  near  him  ohn  luikit  for,  they 
said,  he  wad  gie  a  great  skriech,  and  rin 
as  fest  as  his  wee  weyver  [spider)  legs 
cud  wag  aneth  the  wecht  o'  's  humpie — 
an'  whiles  her  efter  him  wi'  onything 
she  cud  lay  her  han'  upo',  they  said — 
but  I  kenna.  Ony  gait,  the  widow  her- 
sel' grew  waur  and  waur  i'  the  temper, 
an'  I  misdoobt  me  sair  was  gey  hard 
upo'  the  puir  wee  objeck  —  fell  cruel  till 
'im,  they  said — till  at  len'th,  as  a'  body 
kens,  he  forhooit  [forsook)  the  hoose 
a'thegither.  An'  puttin'  this  an'  that 
thegither,  for  I  hear  a  hantle  said  'at  I 
say  na  ower  again,  it  seems  to  me  'at  her 
first  scunner  at  her  puir  misformt  bairn, 
wha  they  say  was  humpit  whan  he  was 
born,  an'  maist  cost  her  life  to  get  lowst 
o'  him — her  scunner  at  'im  's  been  grow- 
in'  an'  growin',  till  it's  grown  to  doon- 
richt  hate." 

"It's  an  awfu'  thing  'at  ye  say,  mem, 
an'  I  doobt  it's  ower  true.  But  hoo  ca?i 
a  mither  hate  her  ain  bairn  ?"  said  Mal- 
colm. 


to4 


MALCOLM. 


"'Deed  it's  no  wonner  ye  sud  speir, 
laddie  !  for  it's  weel  kent  'at  maist  mith- 
ers,  gien  there  be  a  shargar  or  a  nat'ral 
or  a  crookit  ane  amo'  their  bairns,  mak 
mair  o'  that  ane  nor  o'  a'  the  lave  putten 
thegither — as  gien  they  wad  mak  it  up 
till  'im,  for  the  fair  play  o'  the  warl'. 
But  ye  see  in  this  case,  he's  aiblins  [per- 
haps) the  child  o'  sin — for  a  leear  may 
tell  an  ill  trovvth — an'  beirs  the  marks  o' 
't,  ye  see ;  sae  to  her  he's  jist  her  sin 
rinnin'  aboot  the  warl'  incarnat ;  an'  that 
canna  be  pleasant  to  luik  upo'." 

"But  excep'  she  war  ashamed  o'  't, 
she  wadna  tak  it  sae  muckle  to  hert  to 
be  remin't  o'  't." 

"Mony  ane's  ashamed  o'  the  conse- 
quences 'at's  no  ashamed  o'  the  deed. 
Mony  one  cud  du  the  sin  ower  again,  'at 
canna  bide  the  sicht  or  even  the  word  o' 
't.  I  hae  seen  a  body  'at  wad  steal  a 
thing  as  sune's  luik  at  it  gang  daft  wi' 
rage  at  bein'  ca'd  a  thief.  An'  maybe 
she  wadna  care  gien  't  warna  for  the 
oogliness  o'  'im.  Sae  be  he  was  a  bon- 
ny sin,  I'm  thinkin'  she  wad  bide  him 
weel  eneuch.  But  seein'  he  's  naither  i' 
the  image  o'  her  'at  bore  'im  nor  him  'at 
got  'im,  but  beirs  on  's  back,  for  ever  in 
her  sicht,  the  sin  'at  was  the  gettin'  o' 
'm,  he's  a  hump  to  her,  an'  her  hert  's 
aye  howkin  a  grave  for  'im  to  lay  *im 
oot  o'  sicht  intill :  she  bore  'im,  an'  she 
wad  beery  'im.  An'  I'm  thinkin'  she 
beirs  the  markis  —  gien  sae  it  be  sae — 
deid  an'  gane  as  he  is — a  grutch  yet,  for 
passin'  sic  an  offspring  upon  her,  an' 
syne  no  merryin'  her  efter  an'  a',  an'  the 
ro'd  clear  o'  baith  'at  stude  atween  them. 
It  was  said  'at  the  man  'at  killt  'im  in  a 
twasum  fecht  [duel],  sae  mony  a  year 
efter,  was  a  freen'  o'  hers." 

"  But  wad  fowk  du  sic  awfu'  ill  things, 
mem — her  a  merried  woman,  an'  him  a 
merried  man?" 

"There's  no  sayin',  laddie,  what  a  han- 

•tle  o'  men  and  some  women  wad  du.     I 

",hae  muckle  to  be  thankfu'  for  'at  1  was 

•sic  as  no  man  ever  luikit  twice  at.     I 

wasna  wecl-faured  eneuch,  though  I  had 

bonny  hair,  an'  my  mither  aye  said  'at 

her  Maggy  bed  guid  sense,  whatever  else 

she  micht  or  micht  not  hae.     But  gien  I 

cud  hae  gotten  a  guid  man,  sic-like's  is 


scarce,  I  cud  hae  lo'ed  him  weel  eneuch. 
But  that's  naither  here  nor  there,  an'  has 
naething  to  du  wi'  onybody  ava.  The 
pint  I  had  to  come  till  was  this :  the 
wuman  ye  saw  haudin'  a  toot  moot  (/<?«/ 
imiet?)  wi'  that  Cat'nach  wife  was  nane 
ither,  I  do  believe,  than  Mistress  Stewart, 
the  puir  laird's  mither.  An'  I  hae  as  lit- 
tle doobt  that  whan  ye  tuik  's  pairt,  ye 
broucht  to  noucht  a  plot  o'  the  twasum 
{two  together)  against  him.  It  bodes 
guid  to  naebody  whan  there's  a  conjunc 
o'  twa  sic  wanderin'  stars  o'  blackness  as 
yon  twa." 

"  His  ain  mither !"  exclaimed  Malcolm, 
brooding  in  horror  over  the  frightful  con- 
jecture. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  mad  laird 
came  in.  His  eyes  were  staring  wide, 
but  their  look  and  that  of  his  troubled 
visage  showed  that  he  was  awake  only 
in  some  frightful  dream.  "Father  o' 
lichts !"  he  murmured  once  and  again, 
but  making  wild  gestures,  as  if  warding 
off  blows.  Miss  Horn  took  him  gently 
by  the  hand.  The  moment  he  felt  her 
touch,  his  face  grew  calm,  and  he  sub- 
mitted at  once  to  be  led  back  to  bed. 

"Ye  may  tak  yer  aith  upo"t,  Ma'colm," 
she  said  when  she  returned,  "she  means 
naething  but  ill  by  that  puir  cratur ;  but 
you  and  me — we'll  ding  {^defeat)  her  yet, 
gien't  be  His  wull.  She  wants  a  grip  o'  m 
for  some  ill  rizzon  or  ither — to  lock  him 
up  in  a  madhoose,  maybe,  as  the  villains 
said,  or  'deed,  maybe,  to  mak  awa'  wi' 
him  a'thegither." 

"  But  what  guid  wad  that  du  her  .-'"  said 
Malcolm. 

"  It's  ill  to  say,  but  sne  wad  hae  him 
oot  o'  her  sicht,  ony  gait." 

"  She  can  hae  but  little  sicht  o'  him  as 
'tis,"  objected  Malcolm. 

"Ay  ;  but  she  aye  kens  he's  whaur  she 
doesna  ken,  puttin'  her  to  shame,  a' 
aboot  the  coontry,  wi'  that  hump  o'  his. 
Oot  o'  fowk's  sicht  wad  be  to  her  oot 
a'thegither." 

A  brief  silence  followed. 

"Noo,"  said  Malcolm,  "we  come  to 
the  queston  what  the  twa  limmers  could 
want  wi'  that  door." 

"  Dear  kens  !  It  bude  to  be  something 
wrang — that's  a'  'at  mortal  can  say ;  but 


MALCOLM. 


105 


ye  may  be  sure  o'  that. — I  hae  hard  tell," 
she  went  on  reflectingly — "o'  some  room 
or  ither  i'  the  hoose  'at  there's  a  fearsome 
story  aboot,  an'  'at  's  never  opent  on  no 
accoont.  I  hae  hard  a'  aboot  it,  but  I 
canna  min'  upo'  't  noo,  for  I  paid  little 
attention  till  't  at  the  time,  an'  it's  mony 
a  year  sin'  syne.  But  it  wad  be  some 
deevilich  ploy  o'  their  ain  they  wad  be 
efter :  it's  little  the  likes  o'  them  wad 
heed  sic  auld  warld  tales." 

"Wad  ye  hae  me  tell  the  markis  ?" 
asked  Malcolm. 

"Na,  I  wad  no  ;  an'  yet  ye  maun  du  't. 
Ye  hae  no  business  to  ken  o'  onything 
wrang  in  a  body's  hoose  an'  no  tell  them 
— forbye  'at  he  pat  ye  in  chairge.  But  it 
'11  du  naething  for  the  laird ;  for  what 
cares  the  markis  for  onything  or  ony- 
body  but  himsel'  ?" 

"He  cares  for  's  dauchter,"  said  Mal- 
colm. 

"Ow  ay!  —  as  sic  fo<vk  ca'  carin'. 
There's  no  a  bla'guard  i'  the  haill  queen- 
try  he  wadna  sell  her  till,  sae  be  he  was 
o'  an  auld  eneuch  faimily,  and  had  rowth 
o'  siller.  Haith  !  noo-a-days  the  last  'ill 
come  first,  an'  a  fish-cadger  wi'  siller  'ill 
be  coontit  a  better  bargain  nor  a  lord 
wantin'  't ;  only  he  maun  hae  a  heap  o 
't,  to  cower  the  stink  o'  the  fish." 

"Dinna  ye  scorn  the  fish,  mem,"  said 
Malcolm:  "they're  innocent  craturs,  an' 
dinna  smell  waur  nor  they  can  help  ;  an' 
that's  mair  nor  ye  can  say  for  ilka  lord 
ye  come  athort." 

"Ay,  or  cadger  aither,"  rejoined  Miss 
Horn.  "  They're  aft  eneuch  jist  sic  like, 
the  main  differ  lyin'  in  what  they're  de- 
filed wi'  ;  an'  'deed  whiles  there's  no  dif- 
fer there,  or  maist  ony  gait,  maybe,  but 
i'  the  set  o'  the  shoothers  an'  the  wag  o' 
the  tongue." 

"An'  what  '11  we  du  wi'  the  laird  ?'| 
said  Malcolm. 

"We  maun  first  see  what  we  can  du 
wi'  him.  I  wad  try  to  keep  him  mysel' — 
that  is,  gien  he  wad  bide — but  there's 
that  jaud  Jean  !  She's  aye  gabbin',  an' 
claikin',  an'  cognostin'  wi'  the  enemy, 
an'  I  canna  lippen  till  her.  I  think  it 
wad  be  better  ye  sud  tak  chairge  o'  'm 
yersel',  Ma'colm.  I  wad  willin'ly  beir 
ony  expense — for  ye  wadna  be  able  to 


luik  efter  him  an'  du  sae  weel  at  the 
fishin',  ye  ken." 

"Gien  't  had  been  my  ain  line-fishin', 
I  could  aye  ha'  taen  him  i'  the  boat  wi' 
me ;  but  I  dinna  ken  for  the  herrin'. 
Blue  Peter  wadna  objeck,  but  it's  some 
rouch  wark,  an'  for  a  waikly  body  like 
the  laird  to  be  oot  a'  nicht  some  nichts, 
sic  weather  as  we  hae  to  encoonter  whiles, 
micht  be  the  deid  o'  'im." 

They  came  to  no  conclusion  beyond 
this,  that  each  would  think  it  over,  and 
Malcolm  would  call  in  the  morning. 
Ere  then,  however,  the  laird  had  dis- 
missed the  question  for  them.  When 
Miss  Horn  rose,  after  an  ail-but  sleepless 
night,  she  found  that  he  had  taken  affairs 
again  into  his  own  feeble  hands,  and 
vanished. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 
NOT    AT    CHURCH. 

It  being  well  known  that  Joseph  Mair's 
cottage  was  one  of  the  laird's  resorts, 
Malcolm,  as  soon  as  he  learned  his  flight, 
set  out  to  inquire  whether  they  knew  any- 
thing of  him  there. 

Scaurnose  was  perched  almost  on  the 
point  of  the  promontory,  where  the  land 
made  its  final  slope,  ending  in  a  precip- 
itous descent  to  the  shore.  Beneath  lay 
rocks  of  all  sizes  and  of  fantastic  forms, 
some  fallen  from  the  cape  in  tempests 
perhaps,  some  softly  separated  from  it 
by  the  slow  action  of  the  winds  and 
waves  of  centuries.  A  few  of  them 
formed,  by  their  broken  defence  sea- 
ward, the  unsafe  natural  harbor  which 
was  all  the  place  enjoyed. 

If  ever  there  was  a  place  of  one  color, 
it  was  this  village :  everything  was  brown ; 
the  grass  near  it  was  covered  with  brown 
nets ;  at  the  doors  were  brown  heaps  of 
oak-bark,  which,  after  dyeing  the  nets, 
was  used  for  fuel ;  the  cottages  were 
roofed  with  old  brown  thatch  ;  and  the 
one  street  and  the  many  closes  were 
dark  brown  with  the  peaty  earth  which, 
well  mixed  with  scattered  bark,  scantily 
covered  the  surface  of  its  huge  founda- 
tion-rock. There  was  no  pavement,  and 
it  was  the  less  needed  that  the  ways  were 


io6 


MALCOLM. 


rarely  used  by  wheels  of  any  description. 
The  village  was  but  a  roost,  like  the 
dwellings  of  the  sea-birds  which  also 
haunted  the  rocks. 

It  was  a  gray  morning  with  a  gray 
sky  and  a  gray  sea  ;  all  was  brown  and 
gray,  peaceful  and  rather  sad.  Brown- 
haired,  gray-eyed  Phemy  Mair  sat  on 
the  threshold,  intently  rubbing  in  her 
hands  a  small  object  like  a  moonstone. 
That  she  should  be  doing  so  on  a  Sun- 
day would  have  shocked  few  in  Scaur- 
nose  at  that  time,  for  the  fisher-folk  then 
made  but  small  pretensions  to  religion ; 
and  for  his  part  Joseph  Mair  could  not 
believe  that  the  Almighty  would  be  of- 
fended "  at  seein'  a  bairn  sittin'  douce 
wi'  her  playocks,  though  the  day  was 
His." 

"  Weel,  Phemy,  ye're  busy  !"  said  Mal- 
colm. 

"Ay,"  answered  the  child,  without 
looking  up.  The  manner  was  not  court- 
eous, but  her  voice  was  gentle  and  sweet. 

"What  are  ye  doin'  there?"  he  asked. 

"  Makin'  a  string  o'  beads,  to  weir  at 
aunty's  merriage." 

"What  are  ye  makin'  them  o' ?"  he 
went  on. 

"  Haddicks'  een." 

"Are  they  a'  haddicks'." 

"Na,  there's  some  cods'  amo'  them; 
but  they're  maistly  haddicks'.  I  pikes 
them  oot  afore  they're  sautit,  an'  biles 
them  ;  an'  syne  I  polish  them  i'  my  ban's 
till  they're  rale  bonny." 

"Can  ye  tell  me  onything  aboot  the 
mad  laird,  Phemy  ?"  asked  Malcolm,  in 
his  anxiety  too  abruptly, 

"  Ye  can  gang  an'  speir  at  my  father : 
he's  oot  aboot,"  she  answered,  with  a 
sort  of  marked  coolness,  which,  added 
to  the  fact  that  she  had  never  looked  him 
in  the  face,  made  him  more  than  suspect 
something  behind. 

"  Div_y,?  ken  onything  aboot  him  ?"  he 
therefore  insisted. 

"Maybe  I  div,  an'  maybe  I  divna," 
answered  the  child,  with  an  expression 
of  determined  mystery, 

"Ye'll  tell  me  whaur  ye  think  hQ  is, 
Phemy  ?" 

"Na,  I  winna." 

"What  for  no?" 


"  Ow,  jist  for  fear  ye  sud  ken." 

"But  I'm  a  freen'  till  him." 

"Ye  may  think  ay,  an'  the  laird  may 
think  no." 

"  Does  he  \.h.\x\k  yotc  a  freen',  Phemy  ?" 
asked  Malcolm,  in  the  hope  of  coming 
at  something  by  widening  the  sweep  of 
the  conversation. 

"Ay,  he  kefts  I'm  a  freen',"  she  replied, 

"An'  do  ye  aye  ken  whaur  he  is?" 

"Na,  no  aye.  He  gangs  here  an'  he 
gangs  there — jist  as  he  likes.  It's  whan 
naebody  kens  whaur  he  is  that  I  ken, 
an'  gang  till  him." 

"Is  he  i'  the  hoose  ?" 

"Na,  he  's  no  i'  the  hoose." 

"Whaur  is  he,  than,  Phemy?"  said 
Malcolm  coaxingly.  "There's  ill  fowk 
aboot  'at's  efter  deein'  him  an  ill  turn." 

"The  mair  need  no  to  tell !"  retorted 
Phemy. 

"But  I  want  to  tak  care  o'  'im.  Tell 
me  whaur  he  is,  like  a  guid  lassie, 
Phemy." 

"I'm  no  sure.  I  may  say  I  dinna 
ken." 

"Ye  say  ye  ken  whan  ither  fowk  dis- 
na  :  noo  naebody  kens." 

"Hoo  ken  ye  that?" 

"'Cause  he's  run  awa." 

"  Wha  frae  ?     His  mither  ?" 

"Na,  na;  frae  Miss  Horn." 

"  I  ken  naething  aboot  her ;  but  gien 
naebody  kens,  I  ken  whaur  he  is  weel 
eneuch." 

"  Whaur  than  ?  Ye  '11  be  duin'  him  a 
guid  turn  to  tell  me." 

"Whaur  I  winna  tell,  an'  whaur  you 
nor  nae  ither  body  s'  get  him.  An'  ye 
needna  speir,  for  it  wadna  be  richt  to 
tell ;  an'  gien  ye  gang  on  speirin',  you 
an'  me  winna  be  lang  freen's." 

As  she  spoke,  the  child  looked  straight 
up  into  his  face  with  wide-opened  blue 
eyes,  as  truthful  as  the  heavens,  and 
Malcolm  dared  not  press  her,  for  it  would 
have  been  to  press  her  to  do  wrong. 

"Ye  wad  tell  yer  father,  wadna  ye?" 
he  said  kindly. 

"My  father  wadna  speir.  My  Other's 
a  guid  man." 

"Weel,  Phemy,  though  ye  winna  trust 
tne,  supposin'  1  was  to  ixusi  you  ?" 

"Ye  can  du  that  gien  yc  like." 


MALCOLM. 


107 


"An'  ye  winna  tell  ?" 

"  I  s'  mak  nae  promises.  It's  no  trust- 
in',  to  gar  me  promise." 

"Weel,  I  wull  trust  ye. — Tell  the  laird 
to  haud  weel  oot  o'  sicht  for  a  while." 

"He'll  du  that,"  said  Phemy. 

"An  tell  him  gien  onything  befa'  him, 
to  sen'  to  Miss  Horn,  for  Ma'colm  Mac- 
Phail  may  be  oot  wi'  the  boats. — Ye  win- 
na forget  that  ?" 

"I'm  no  lickly  to  forget  it,"  answered 
Phemy,  apparently  absorbed  in  boring  a 
hole  in  a  haddock's  eye  with  a  pin  so 
bent  as  to  act  like  a  brace  and  bit. 

"Ye'U  no  get  yer  string  o'  beads  in 
time  for  the  weddin',  Phemy,"  remarked 
Malcolm,  going  on  to  talk  from  a  desire 
to  give  the  child  a  feeling  of  his  friend- 
liness. 

"Ay  will  I — fine  that,"  she  rejoined. 

"Whan  is  't  to  be  ?" 

"  Ow,  neist  Setterday.  Ye'U  be  comin' 
ower .''" 

"  I  haena  gotten  a  call." 

"Ye  '11  be  gettin'  ane." 

"  Div  ye  think  they'll  gie  me  ane  ?" 

"As  sune  's  onybody. — Maybe  by  that 
time  I'll  be  able  to  gie  ye  some  news  o' 
the  laird." 

"  There's  a  guid  lassie  !" 

"Na,  na ;  I'm  makin'  nae  promises," 
said  Phemy.  Malcolm  left  her  and  went 
to  find  her  father,  who,  although  it  was 
Sunday,  was  already  "  oot  aboot,"  as  she 
had  said.  He  found  him  strolling  in 
meditation  along  the  cliffs.  They  had  a 
little  talk  together,  but  Joseph  knew 
nothing  of  the  laird. 

Malcolm  took  Lossie  House  on  his 
way  back,  for  he  had  not  yet  seen  the 
marquis,  to  whom  he  must  report  his 
adventures  of  the  night  before.  The 
signs  of  past  reveling  were  plentifully 
visible  as  he  approached  the  house.  The 
marquis  was  not  yet  up,  but  Mrs.  Court- 
hope  undertaking  to  send  him  word  as 
soon  as  his  lordship  was  to  be  seen,  he 
threw  himself  on  the  grass  and  waited, 
his  mind  occupied  with  strange  questions, 
started  by  the  Sunday  coming  after  such 
a  Saturday — among  the  rest,  how  God 
could  permit  a  creature  to  be  born  so 
distorted  and  helpless  as  the  laird,  and 
then  permit  him  to  be  so  abused  in  con- 


sequence of  his  helplessness.  The  prob- 
lems of  life  were  beginning  to  bite.  Ev- 
erywhere things  appeared  uneven.  He 
was  not  one  to  complain  of  mere  external 
inequalities  :  if  he  was  inclined  to  envy 
Lord  Meikleham,  it  was  not  because  of 
his  social  position :  he  was  even  now 
philosopher  enough  to  know  that  the  life 
of  a  fisherman  was  preferable  to  that  of 
such  a  marquis  as  Lord  Lossie — that  the 
desirableness  of  a  life  is  to  be  measured 
by  the  amount  of  interest  and  not  by  the 
amount  of  ease  in  it,  for  the  more  ease 
the  more  unrest.  Neither  was  he  in- 
clined to  complain  of  the  gulf  that  yawn- 
ed so  wide  between  him  and  Lady  Flo- 
rimel.  The  difficulty  lay  deeper :  such 
a  gulf  existing,  by  a  social  law  only  less 
inexorable  than  a  natural  one,  why  should 
he  feel  the  rent  invading  his  individual 
being?  in  a  word,  though  Malcolm  put 
it  in  no  such  definite  shape,  Why  should 
a  fisher-lad  find  himself  in  danger  of 
falling  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a 
marquis  ?  Why  should  such  a  thing, 
seeing  the  very  constitution  of  things 
rendered  it  an  absurdity,  be  yet  a  pos- 
sibility ? 

The  church-bell  began,  rang  on  and 
ceased.  The  sound  of  the  psalms  came, 
softly  mellowed,  and  sweetly  harmonized, 
across  the  churchyard  through  the  gray 
Sabbath  air,  and  he  found  himself,  for 
the  first  time,  a  stray  sheep  from  the  fold. 
The  service  must  have  been  half  through 
before  a  lackey,  to  whom  Mrs.  Courthope 
had  committed  the  matter  when  she  went 
to  church,  brought  him  the  message  that 
the  marquis  would  see  him. 

"Well,  MacPhail,  what  do  you  want 
with  me?"  said  his  lordship  as  he  en- 
tered. 

"  It's  my  duty  to  acquaint  yer  lordship 
wi'  certain  proceedin's  'at  took  place  last 
night,"  answered  Malcolm. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  marquis. 

Thereupon  Malcolm  began  at  the  be- 
ginning, and  told  of  the  men  he  had 
watched,  and  how,  in  the  fancy  of  fol 
lowing  them,  he  had  found  himself  in 
the  garret,  and  what  he  saw  and  did 
there. 

"Did  you  recognize  either  of  the  wo- 
men ?"  asked  Lord  Lossie. 


xo8 


MALCOLM. 


"Ane  o'  them,  my  lord,"  answered 
Malcolm,  "it  was  Mistress  Catanach, 
the  howdie." 

"What  sort  of  a  woman  is  she  ?" 

"  Some  fowk  canna  bide  her,  my  lord. 
I  ken  no  ill  to  lay  till  her  chairge,  but  I 
wadna  lippen  till  her.  My  gran' father 
— an'  he's  blin',  ye  ken, — jist  trimles 
whan  she  comes  near  him." 

The  marquis  smiled. 

"What  do  you  suppose  she  was  about  ?" 
he  asked. 

"I  ken  no  more  than  the  bonnet  I 
flang  in  her  face,  my  lord ;  but  it  could 
hardly  be  guid  she  was  efter.  At  ony 
rate,  seein'  yer  lordship  pat  me  in  a 
mainner  in  chairge,  I  bude  to  haud  her 
oot  o'  a  closed  room — an'  her  gaein' 
creepin'  oboot  yer  lordship's  hoose  like 
a  worm." 

"Quite  right.  Will  you  pull  the  bell 
there  for  me  ?" 

He  told  the  man  to  send  Mrs.  Court- 
hope  ;  but  he  said  she  had  not  yet  come 
home  from  church. 

"  Could  you  take  me  to  the  room,  Mac- 
Phail  ?"  asked  his  lordship. 

"  I'll  try,  my  lord,"  answered  Malcolm. 

As  far  as  the  proper  quarter  of  the  at- 
tics, he  went  straight  as  a  pigeon  ;  in 
that  labyrinth  he  had  to  retrace  his  steps 
once  or  twice,  but  at  length  he  stopped, 
and  said  confidently — 

"This  is  the  door,  my  lord." 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"As  sure's  death,  my  lord." 

The  marquis  tried  the  door  and  found 
it  immovable. 

"You  say  she  had  the  key ?" 

"  No,  my  lord :  I  said  she  had  keys, 
but  whether  she  had  the  key,  I  doobt  if 
she  kent  hersel'.  It  may  ha'  been  ane 
o'  the  bundle  yet  to  try." 

"You're  a  sharp  fellow,"  said  the 
marquis.  "  I  wish  I  had  such  a  servant 
about  me." 

"  I  wad  mak  a  some  rouch  one,  I 
doobt,"  returned  Malcolm  laughing. 

His  lordship  was  of  another  mind,  but 
pursued  the  subject  no  farther. 

"  1  have  a  vague  recollection,"  he  said, 
"  of  some  room  in  the  house  having  an 
old  story  or  legend  connected  with  it.  I 
must  find  out.     I  dare  say  Mrs.  Court- 


hope  knows.  Meantime  you  hold  your 
tongue.  We  may  get  some  amusement 
out  of  this." 

"  I  wull,  my  lord,  like  a  deid  man  an' 
beeryt." 

"  You  can — can  you  ?" 
"I  can,  my  lord." 

"You  are  a  rare  one!"  said  the  mar- 
quis. 

Malcolm  thought  he  was  making  game 
of  him  as  heretofore,  and  held  his  peace. 

"You  can  go  home,  now,"  said  his 
lordship.     "  I  will  see  to  this  affair." 

"But  jist  be  canny  meddlin'  wi'  Mis- 
tress Catanach,  my  lord :  she's  no 
mowse." 

"What!  you're  not  afraid  of  an  old 
woman .''" 

"Deil  a  bit,  my  lord  ! — that  is,  I'm  no 
feart  at  a  dogfish  or  a  rottan,  but  I  wad 
tak  tent  an'  grip  them  the  richt  gait,  for 
they  hae  teeth.  Some  fowk  thinks  Mis- 
tress Catanach  has  mair  teeth  nor  she 
shaws." 

"Well,  if  she's  too  much  for  me,  I'll 
send  for  you,"  said  the  marquis  good- 
humoredly. 

"Ye  canna  get  me  sae  easy,  my  lord: 
we're  efter  the  herrin'  noo." 

"Well,  well,  we'll  see." 

"But  I  wantit  to  tell  ye  anither  thing, 
my  lord,"  said  Malcolm,  as  he  followed 
the  marquis  down  the  stairs. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  I  cam  upo'  anither  plot — a  mair  se- 
rious ane,  bein'  against  a  man  'at  can  ill 
haud  aff  o'  himsel',  an'  cud  waur  bide 
onything  than  yer  lordship  —  the  pair 
mad  laird." 

"Who's  he?" 

"  Ilka  body  kens  him,  my  lord  !  He's 
son  to  the  leddy  o'  Kirkbyres." 

"  I  remember  her — an  old  flame  of  my 
brother's." 

"  I  ken  naething  aboot  that,  my  lord  ; 
but  he's  her  son." 

"What  about  him,  then  ?" 

They  had  now  reached  the  hall,  and, 
seeing  the  marquis  impatient,  Malcolm 
confined  himself  to  the  principal  facts. 

"I  don't  think  you  had  any  business 
to  interfere,  MacPhail,"  said  his  lord- 
ship seriously.  "His  mother  must  know 
best." 


MALCOLM. 


109 


"  I'm  no  sae  sure  o'  that,  my  lord  !  To 
say  naething  o'  the  illguideship,  which 
micht  hae  garred  a  minister  sweer,  it 
wad  be  a  cruelty  naething  short  o'  deev*- 
lich  to  lock  up  a  puir  hairmless  cratur 
like  that,  as  innocent  as  he  's  ill-shapit." 

"He's  as  God  made  him,"  said  the 
marquis. 

"  He  's  no  as  God  wull  mak  him,"  re- 
turned Malcolm, 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  asked 
the  marquis. 

"It  Stan's  to  rizzon,  my  lord,"  answer- 
ed Malcolm,  "that  what's  ill-made  maun 
be  made  ower  again.  There's  a  day  com- 
in'  whan  a'  'at's  wrang  'ill  be  set  richt,  ye 
ken." 

"And  the  crooked  made  straight," 
suggested  the  marquis,  laughing. 

"  Doobtless,  my  lord.  He'll  be 
strauchtit  oot  bonny  that  day,"  said 
Malcolm  with  absolute  seriousness. 

"  Bah !     You   don't  think  God  cares 


about  a  misshapen  lump  of  flesh  like 
that !"  exclaimed  his  lordship  with  con- 
tempt. 

"As  muckle's  aboot  yersel'  or  my  led- 
dy,"  said  Malcolm.  "Gien  he  didna,  he 
wadna  be  nae  God  ava'  [at  all)." 

The  marcjuis  laughed  again  :  he  heard 
the  words  with  his  ears,  but  his  heart 
was  deaf  to  the  thought  they  clothed ; 
hence  he  took  Malcolm's  earnestness  for 
irreverence,  and  it  amused  him. 

"  You've,  not  got  to  set  things  right, 
anyhow,"  he  said.  "You  mind  your 
own  business." 

"  I'll  try,  my  lord :  it's  the  business  o' 
ilka  man,  whaur  he  can,  to  lowse  the 
weichty  birns,  an'  lat  the  forfouchten 
gang  free.* — Guid-day  to  ye,  my  lord." 

So  saying,  the  young  fisherman  turn- 
ed, and  left  the  marquis  laughing  in  the 
hall. 

*  Isa.  Iviii.  6. 


■fj^:ri:  -vx 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

LORD   GERNON. 

WHEN  his  housekeeper  returned 
from  church,  Lord  Lossie  sent  for 
her. 

"Sit  down,  Mrs.  Courthope,"  he  said. 
"  I  want  to  ask  you  about  a  story  I  have 
a  vague  recollection  of  hearing  when  I 
spent  a  summer  at  this  house  some  twen- 
ty years  ago.  It  had  to  do  with  a  room 
in  the  house  that  was  never  opened." 

"There  is  such  a  story,  my  lord,"  an- 
swered the  housekeeper.  "  The  late  mar- 
quis, I  remember  well,  used  to  laugh  at 
it,  and  threaten  now  and  then  to  dare 
the  prophecy ;  but  old  Eppie  persuaded 
him  not — or  at  least  fancied  she  did." 

"Who  is  old  Eppie  ?" 

"She's  gone  now,  my  lord.  She  was 
over  a  hundred  then.  She  was  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  house,  lived  all  her 
days  in  it,  and  died  in  it ;  so  she  knew 
more  about  the  place  than  any  one 
else — ' ' 

"Is  ever  likely  to  know,"  said  the 
marquis,  superadding  a  close  to  her  sen- 
tence. "And  why  wouldn't  she  have 
the  room  opened  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  of  the  ancient  prophecy,  my 
lord." 

"  I  can't  recall  a  single  point  of  the 
story." 

"I  wish  old  Eppie  were  alive  to  tell 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Courthope. 

"Don't jou  know  it,  then?" 

"Yes,  pretty  well,  but  my  English 
tongue  can't  tell  it  properly.  It  doesn't 
sound  right  out  of  my  mouth.  I've 
heard  it  a  good  many  times  too,  for  I 
had  often  to  take  a  visitor  to  her  room 
to  hear  it,  and  the  old  woman  liked 
nothing  better  than  telling  it.  But  I 
couldn't  help  remarking  that  it  had 
grown  a  good  bit  even  in  my  time.  The 
story  was  like  a  tree  :  it  got  bigger  every 
year." 

"That's  the   way  with  a  good  many 

T  TO 


stories,"    said   the   marquis.     "But  tell 
me  the  prophecy,  at  least." 

"That  is  the  only  part  I  can  give  just 
as  she  gave  it.  It's  in  rhyme.  I  hardly 
understand  it,  but  I'm  sure  of  the  words." 
"  Let  us  have  them,  then,  if  you  please." 
Mrs.  Courthope  reflected  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  repeated  the  following 
lines : 

The  lord  quha  wad  sup  on  3  thowmes  o'  cauld  airn. 
The  ayr  quha  wad  kythe  a  bastard  and  carena, 

The  mayd  quha  wad  tyne  her  man  and  her  bairn, 
Lift  the  sneck,  and  enter,  and  fearna. 

"That's  it,  my  lord,"  she  said,  in  con- 
clusion. "And  there's  one  thing  to  be 
observed,"  she  Added — "that  that  door 
is  the  only  one  in  all  the  passage  that 
has  a  sneck,  as  they  call  it." 

"What  is  a  sneck?"  asked  his  lord- 
ship, who  was  not  much  of  a  scholar  in 
his  country's  tongue. 

"What  we  call  a  latch  in  England, 
my  lord.  I  took  pains  to  learn  the 
Scotch  correctly,  and  I've  repeated  it  to 
your  lordship  word  for  word." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  returned  Lord  Los- 
sie, "but  for  the  sense,  I  can  make  noth- 
ing of  it.  And  you  think  my  brother  be- 
lieved the  story?" 

"  He  always  laughed  at  it,  my  lord, 
but  pretended  at  least  to  give  in  to  old 
Eppie's  entreaties." 

"You  mean  that  he  was  more  near 
believing  it  than  he  liked  to  confess  ?" 

"That's  not  what  I  mean,  my  lord." 

"Why  do  you  %-Siy  pretended,  then  ?" 

"  Because  when  the  news  of  his  death 
came,  some  people  about  the  place  would 
have  it  that  he  must  have  opened  the 
door  some  time  or  other." 

"  How  did  they  make  that  out  ?" 

"  From  the  first  line  of  the  prophecy." 

"Repeat  it  again." 

"The  lord  quha  wad  sup  on  3  thowmes 
o'  cauld  airn,"  said  Mrs.  Courthope  with 
emphasis,  adding,  "  The  three  she  al- 
ways said  was  a  figure  3." 


MALCOLM. 


"That  implies  it  was  written  some- 
where ?" 

"  She  said  it  was  legible  on  the  door 
in  her  day,  as  if  burnt  with  a  red-hot 
iron." 

"And  what  does  the  line  mean  ?" 

"Eppie  said  it  meant  that  the  lord  of 
the  place  who  opened  that  door  would 
die  by  a  sword-wound.  Three  inches  of 
cold  iron  it  means,  my  lord." 

The  marquis  grew  thoughtful :  his 
brother  had  died  in  a  sword-duel.  P'or 
a  few  moments  he  was  silent.  "Tell  me 
the  whole  story,"  he  said  at  length. 

Mrs.  Courthope  again  reflected,  and  be- 
gan. I  will  tell  the  story,  however,  in  my 
own  words,  reminding  my  reader  that  if  he 
regards  it  as  an  unwelcome  interruption, 
he  can  easily  enough  avoid  this  bend  of 
the  river  of  my  narrative  by  taking  a 
short  cut  across  to  the  next  chapter. 

In  an  ancient  time  there  was  a  lord 
of  Lossie  who  practiced  unholy  works. 
Although  he  had  other  estates,  he  lived 
almost  entirely  at  the  House  of  Lossie — 
that  is,  after  his  return  from  the  East, 
where  he  had  spent  his  youth  and  early 
manhood.  But  he  paid  no  attention  to 
his  affairs :  a  steward  managed  every- 
thing for  him,  and  Lord  Gernon  (for  that 
was  the  outlandish  name  he  brought  from 
England,  where  he  was  born  while  his 
father  was  prisoner  to  Edward  Long- 
shanks)  trusted  him  for  a  great  while 
without  making  the  least  inquiry  into  his 
accounts,  apparently  contented  with  re- 
ceiving money  enough  to  carry  on  the 
various  vile  experiments  which  seemed 
his  sole  pleasure  in  life.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  the  minds  of  the  people  of  the 
town — the  old  town,  that  is,  which  was 
then  much  larger,  and  clustered  about 
the  gates  of  the  House — that  he  had 
dealings  with  Satan,  from  whom  he  had 
gained  authority  over  the  powers  of  Na- 
ture ;  that  he  was  able  to  rouse  and  lay 
the  winds,  to  bring  down  rain,  to  call 
forth  the  lightnings  and  set  the  thunders 
roaring  over  town  and  sea ;  nay,  that  he 
could  even  draw  vessels  ashore  on  the 
rocks,  with  the  certainty  that  not  one  on 
board  would  be  left  alive  to  betray  the 
pillage   of   the  wreck :    this   and   many 


other  deeds  of  dire  note  were  laid  to  his 
charge  in  secret.  The  town  cowered  at 
the  foot  of  the  House  in  terror  of  what 
its  lord  might  bring  down  upon  it,  as  a 
brood  of  chickens  might  cower  if  they 
had  been  hatched  by  a  kite,  and  saw, 
instead  of  the  matronly  head  and  beak 
of  the  hen  of  their  instinct,  those  of  the 
bird  of  prey  projected  over  them.  Scarce 
one  of  them  dared  even  look  from  the 
door  when  the  thunder  was  rolling  over 
their  heads,  the  lightnings  flashing  about 
the  roofs  and  turrets  of  the  House,  the 
wind  raving  in  fits  between  as  if  it  would 
rave  its  last,  and  the  rain  falling  in  sheets 
— not  so  much  from  fear  of  the  elements 
as  for  horror  of  the  far  more  terrible 
things  that  might  be  spied  careering  in 
the  storm.  And  indeed  Lord  Gernon 
himself  was  avoided  in  like  fashion, 
although  rarely  had  any  one  the  evil 
chance  of  seeing  him,  so  seldom  did  he 
go  out  of  doors.  There  was  but  one  in 
the  whole  community — and  that  was  a 
young  girl,  the  daughter  of  his  steward 
—who  declared  she  had  no  fear  of  him : 
she  went  so  far  as  to  uphold  that  Lord 
Gernon  meant  harm  to  nobody,  and  was 
in  consequence  regarded  by  the  neigh- 
bors as  unrighteously  bold. 

He  worked  in  a  certain  lofty  apart- 
ment on  the  ground  floor,  with  cellars 
underneath,  reserved,  it  was  believed,  for 
frightfulest  conjurations  and  interviews  ; 
where,  although  no  one  was  permitted  to 
enter,  they  knew  from  the  smoke  that  he 
had  a  furnace,  and  from  the  evil  smells 
which  wandered  out  that  he  dealt  with 
things  altogether  devilish  in  their  natures 
and  powers.  They  said  he  always  wash- 
ed there — in  water  medicated  with  dis- 
tillments  to  prolong  life  and  produce  in- 
vulnerability ;  but  of  this  they  could  of 
course  know  nothing.  Strange  to  say, 
however,  he  always  slept  in  the  garret — 
as  far  removed  from  his  laboratory  as 
the  limits  of  the  house  would  permit ; 
whence  people  said  he  dared  not  sleep 
in  the  neighborhood  of  his  deeds,  but 
sought  shelter  for  his  unconscious  hours 
in  the  spiritual  shadow  of  the  chapel, 
which  was  in  the  same  wing  as  his  cham- 
ber. His  household  saw  nearly  as  little 
of  him  as  his  retainers :  when  his  tread 


MALCOLM. 


was  heard,  beating  dull  on  the  stone  turn- 
pike or  thundering  along  the  upper  cor- 
ridors in  the  neighborhood  of  his  cham- 
ber or  of  the  library — the  only  other  part 
of  the  house  he  visited — man  or  maid 
would  dart  aside  into  the  next  way  of 
escape,  all  believing  that  the  nearer  he 
came  to  finding  himself  the  sole  inhab- 
itant of  his  house,  the  better  he  was 
pleased.  Nor  would  he  allow  man  or 
woman  to  enter  his  chamber  any  more 
than  his  laboratory.  When  they  found 
sheets  or  garments  outside  his  door,  they 
removed  them  with  fear  and  trembling, 
and  put  others  in  their  place. 

At  length,  by  means  of  his  enchant- 
ments, he  discovered  that  the  man  whom 
he  had  trusted  had  been  robbing  him  for 
many  years :  all  the  time  he  had  been 
searching  for  the  philosopher's  stone  the 
gold  already  his  had  been  tumbling  into 
the  bags  of  his  steward.  But  what  en- 
raged him  far  more  was,  that  the  fellow 
had  constantly  pretended  difficulty  in 
providing  the  means  necessary  for  the 
prosecution  of  his  idolized  studies  :  even 
if  the  feudal  lord  could  have  accepted 
the  loss  and  forgiven  the  crime,  here  was 
a  mockery  which  the  man  of  science 
could  not  pardon.  He  summoned  his 
steward  to  his  presence  and  accused  him 
of  his  dishonesty.  The  man  denied  it 
energetically,  but  a  few  mysterious  waft- 
ures  of  the  hand  of  his  lord  set  him 
trembling,  and  after  a  few  more  his  lips, 
moving  by  a  secret  compulsion,  and  find- 
ing no  power  in  their  owner  to  check  their 
utterance,  confessed  all  the  truth,  where- 
upon his  master  ordered  him  to  go  and 
bring  his  accounts.  He  departed  all  but 
bereft  of  his  senses,  and  staggered  home 
as  if  in  a  dream.  There  he  begged  his 
daughter  to  go  and  plead  for  him  with 
his  lord,  hoping  she  might  be  able  to 
move  him  to  mercy ;  for  she  was  a  love- 
ly girl,  and  supposed  by  the  neighbors, 
judging  from  what  they  considered  her 
foolhardiness,  to  have  received  from  him 
tokens  of  something  at  least  less  than 
aversion. 

She  obeyed,  and  from  that  hour  dis- 
appeared. The  people  of  the  house 
averred  afterward  that  the  next  day,  and 
for  days  following,  they  heard,  at  inter- 


vals, moans  and  cries  from  the  wizard's 
chamber  or  somewhere  in  its  neighbor- 
hood— certainly  not  from  the  laboratory  ; 
but  as  they  had  seen  no  one  visit  their 
master,  they  had  paid  them  little  atten- 
tion, classing' them  with  the  other  and 
hellish  noises  they  were  but  too  much 
accustomed  to  hear. 

The  steward's  love  for  his  daughter, 
though  it  could  not  embolden  him  to 
seek  her  in  the  tyrant's  den,  drove  him, 
at  length,  to  appeal  to  the  justice  of  his 
country  for  what  redress  might  yet  be 
possible :  he  sought  the  court  of  the 
great  Bruce  and  laid  his  complaint  be- 
fore him.  That  righteous  monarch  im- 
mediately despatched  a  few  of  his  trust- 
iest men-at-arms,  under  the  protection 
of  a  monk  whom  he  believed  a  match 
for  any  wizard  under  the  sun,  to  arrest 
Lord  Gernon  and  release  the  girl.  When 
they  arrived  at  Lossie  House  they  found 
it  silent  as  the  grave.  The  domestics 
had  vanished,  but  by  following  the  mi- 
nute directions  of  the  steward,  whom  no 
persuasion  could  bring  to  set  foot  across 
the  threshold,  they  succeeded  in  finding 
their  way  to  the  .parts  of  the  house  indi- 
cated by  him.  Having  forced  the  labor- 
atory and  found  it  forsaken,  they  ascend- 
ed, in  the  gathering  dusk  of  a  winter 
afternoon,  to  the  upper  regions  of  the 
house.  Before  they  reached  the  top  of 
the  stair  that  led  to  the  wizard's  cham- 
ber they  began  to  hear  inexplicable 
sounds,  which  grew  plainer,  though  not 
much  louder,  as  they  drew  nearer  to  the 
door.  They  were  mostly  like  the  grunt- 
ing of  some  small  animal  of  the  hog 
kind,  with  an  occasional  one  like  the 
yelling  roar  of  a  distant  lion  ;  but  with 
these  were  now  and  then  mingled  cries 
of  suffering  so  fell  and  strange  that  their 
souls  recoiled  as  if  they  would  break 
loose  from  their  bodies  to  get  out  of  hear- 
ing of  them.  The  monk  himself  start- 
ed back  when  first  they  invaded  his  ear, 
and  it  was  no  wonder  then  that  the  men- 
at-arms  should  hesitate  to  approach  the 
room  ;  and  as  they  stood  irresolute  they 
saw  a  faint  light  go  flickering  across  the 
upper  part  of  the  door,  which  naturally 
strengthened  their  disinclination  to  go 
nearer. 


MALCOLM. 


113 


"  If  it  weren't  for  the  girl,"  said  one 
of  them  in  a  scared  whisper  to  his  neigh- 
bor, "  I  would  leave  the  wizard  to  the 
devil  and  his  dam." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  left  his  mouth 
when  the  door  opened,  and  out  came  a 
form — whether  phantom  or  living  wo- 
man none  could  tell.  Pale,  forlorn,  lost 
and  purposeless,  it  came  straight  toward 
them,  with  wide  unseeing  eyes.  They 
parted  in  terror  from  its  path.  It  went  on, 
looking  to  neither  hand,  and  sank  down 
the  stair.  The  moment  it  was  beyond 
their  sight  they  came  to  themselves  and 
rushed  after  it,  but  although  they  search- 
ed the  whole  house,  they  could  find  no 
creature  in  it,  except  a  cat  of  questionable 
appearance  and  behavior,  which  they 
wisely  let  alone.  Returning,  they  took 
up  a  position  whence  they  could  watch 
the  door  of  the  chamber  day  and  night. 

For  three  weeks  they  watched  it,. but 
neither  cry  nor  other  sound  reached 
them.  For  three  weeks  more  they  watch- 
ed it,  and  then  an  evil  odor  began  to  as- 
sail them,  which  grew  and  grew,  until  at 
length  they  were  satisfied  that  the  wizard 
was  dead.  They  returned  therefore  to 
the  king  and  made  their  report,  where- 
upon Lord  Gernon  was  decreed  dead 
and  his  heir  was  enfeoffed.  But  for 
many  years  he  was  said  to  be  still  alive ; 
and  indeed  whether  he  had  ever  died  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  was  to 
old  Eppie  doubtful,  for  at  various  times 
there  had  arisen  whispers  of  peculiar 
sounds,  even  strange  cries,  having  been 
heard  issue  from  that  room  —  whispers 
which  had  revived  in  the  house  in  Mrs. 
Courthope's  own  time.  No  one  had 
slept  in  that  part  of  the  roof  within  the 
memory  of  old  Eppie :  no  one,  she  be- 
lieved, had  ever  slept  there  since  the 
events  of  her  tale ;  certainly  no  one  had 
in  Mrs.  Courthope's  time.  It  was  said 
also  that  invariably,  sooner  or  later  after 
such  cries  were  heard,  some  evil  befell 
either  the  lord  of  Lossie  or  some  one  of 
his  family. 

"  Show  me  the  room,  Mrs.  Courthope," 
said  the  marquis,  rising,  as  soon  as  she 
had  ended. 

The  housekeeper  looked  at  him  with 
some  dismay. 


"What!"  said  his  lordship,  "you  an 
Englishwoman  and  superstitious!" 

"  I  am  cautious,  my  lord,  though  not  a 
Scotchwoman,"  returned  Mrs.  Courthope. 
"All  I  would  presume  to  say  is.  Don't  do 
it  without  first  taking  time  to  think  over 
it." 

"  I  will  not.  But  I  want  to  know  which 
room  it  is." 

Mrs.  Courthope  led  the  way,  and  his 
lordship  followed  her  to  the  very  door, 
as  he  had  expected,  with  which  Malcolm 
had  spied  Mrs.  Catanach  tampering.  He 
examined  it  well,  and  on  the  upper  part 
of  it  found  what  might  be  the  remnants 
of  a  sunk  inscription,  so  far  obliterated 
as  to  convey  no  assurance  of  what  it  was. 
He  professed  himself  satisfied,  and  they 
went  down  the  stairs  together  again. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 
A    FISHER- WEDDING. 

When  the  next  Saturday  came,  all  the 
friends  of  the  bride  or  bridegroom  who 
had  "gotten  a  call  "  to  the  wedding  of 
Annie  Mair  and  Charley  Wilson  assem- 
bled respectively  at  the  houses  of  their 
parents.  Malcolm  had  received  an  in- 
vitation from  both,  and  had  accepted 
that  of  the  bride. 

Whisky  and  oat -cake  having  been 
handed  round,  the  bride,  a  short  but 
comely  young  woman,  set  out  with  her 
father  for  the  church,  followed  by  her 
friends  in  couples.  At  the  door  of  the 
church,  which  stood  on  the  highest  point 
in  the  parish,  a  centre  of  assault  for  all 
the  winds  that  blew,  they  met  the  bride- 
groom and  his  party :  the  bride  and  he 
entered  the  church  together,  and  the  rest 
followed.  After  a  brief  and  somewhat 
bare  ceremony,  they  issued — the  bride 
walking  between  her  brother  and  the 
groomsman,  each  taking  an  arm  of  the 
bride,  and  the  company  following,  main- 
ly in  trios.  Thus  arranged,  they  walked 
eastward  along  the  high-road  to  meet  the 
bride's  fijst  foot. 

They  had  gone  about  halfway  to  Port- 
lossie  when  a  gentleman  appeared,  saun- 
tering carelessly  toward  them  with  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth.     It  was  Lord  Mei- 


114 


MALCOLM. 


kleham.  Malcolm  was  not  the  only  one 
who  knew  him.  Lizzy  Findlay,  only 
daughter  of  the  Partan,  and  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  company,  blushed  crimson  : 
she  had  danced  with  him  at  Lossie  House, 
and  he  had  said  things  to  her,  by  way  of 
polite  attention,  which  he  would  never 
have  said  had  she  been  of  his  own  rank. 
He  would  have  lounged  past  with  a  care- 
less glance,  but  the  procession  halted  by 
one  consent,  and  the  bride,  taking  a  bot- 
tle and  glass  which  her  brother  carried, 
proceeded  to  pour  out  a  bumper  of  whis- 
ky, while  the  groomsman  addressed  Lord 
Meikleham.  "Ye'  're  the  bride's  first 
fut,  sir,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  asked 
Lord  Meikleham. 

"  Here's  the  bride,  sir :  she'll  tell  ye." 

Lord  Meikleham  lifted  his  hat.  "Al- 
low me  to  congratulate  you,"  he  said. 

"Ye  're  my  first  fut,"  returned  the  bride 
eagerly  yet  modestly,  as  she  held  out  to 
him  the  glass  of  whisky. 

"This  is  to  console  me  for  not  being  in 
the  bridegroom's  place,  I  presume ;  but 
notwithstanding  my  jealousy,  I  drink 
to  the  health  of  both,"  said  the  young 
nobleman,  and  tossed  off  the  liquor. 
"Would  you  mind  explaining  to  me 
what  you  mean  by  this  ceremony  ?"  he 
added,  to  cover  a  slight  choking  caused 
by  the  strength  of  the  dram. 

"  It's  for  luck,  sir,"  answered  Joseph 
Main  "A  first  fut  wha  wadna  bring  ill- 
luck  upon  a  new-married  couple  maun 
aye  du  as  ye  hae  dune  this  mecnute — 
tak  a  dram  frae  the  bride." 

"  Is  that  the  sole  privilege  connected 
with  my  good  fortune  ?"  said  Lord  Mei- 
kleham. "  If  I  take  the  bride's  dram,  I 
must  join  the  bride's  regiment. — My 
good  fellow,"  he  went  on,  approaching 
Malcolm,  "you  have  more  than  your 
share  of  the  best  things  of  this  world." 

For  Malcolm  had  two  partners,  and 
the  one  on  the  side  next  Lord  Meikle- 
ham, who,  as  he  spoke,  offered  her  his 
arm,  was  Lizzy  Findlay. 

"No  as  shares  gang,  my  lord,"  re- 
turned Malcolm,  tightening  his  arm  on 
Lizzy's  hand.  "Ye  maunna  gang  wi' 
ane  o'  oor  customs  to  gang  agaiie  an- 
ither.      Fisher   fowk's  ready  eneuch  to 


pairt  wi'  their  whusky,  but  no  wi'  their 
lasses  !     Na,  haith  !" 

Lord  Meikleham's  face  flushed,  and 
Lizzy  looked  down,  very  evidently  dis- 
appointed ;  but  the  bride's  father,  a 
wrinkled  and  brown  little  man,  with  a 
more  gentle  bearing  than  most  of  them, 
interfered  :  "Ye  see,  my  lord— gien  it  be 
sae  I  maun  ca'  ye,  an'  Ma'colm  seems  to 
ken — we're  like  by  oorsel's  for  the  pres- 
ent, an'  we're  but  a  rouch  set  o'  fowk  for 
sic  like  's  yer  lordship  to  haud  word  o' 
mou'  wi'  ;  but  gien  it  wad  please  ye  to 
come  ower  the  gait  ony  time  i'  the  even- 
in',  an'  tak  yer  share  o'  what's  gauin',  ye 
sud  be  walcome,  an'  we  wad  coont  it  a 
great  honor  frae  sic's  yer  lordship." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  answered 
Lord  Meikleham ;  and,  taking  off  his 
hat,  he  went  his  way. 

The  party  returned  to  the  home  of  the 
bride's  parents.  Her  mother  stood  at 
the  door  with  a  white  handkerchief  in 
one  hand  and  a  quarter  of  oat-cake  in 
the  other.  When  the  bride  reached  the 
threshold  she  stood,  and  her  mother, 
first  laying  the  handkerchief  on  her  head, 
broke  the  oat-cake  into  pieces  upon  it. 
These  were  distributed  among  the  com- 
pany, to  be  carried  home  and  laid  under 
their  pillows. 

The  bridegroom's  party  betook  them- 
selves to  his  father's  house,  where,  as 
well  as  at  old  Mair's,  a  substantial  meal 
of  tea,  bread  and  butter,  cake  and  cheese 
was  provided.  Then  followed  another 
walk,  to  allow  of  both  houses  being  made 
tidy  for  the  evening's  amusements. 

About  seven  Lord  Meikleham  made 
his  appearance,  and  had  a  hearty  wel- 
come. He  had  bought  a  showy  brooch 
for  the  bride,  which  she  accepted  with 
the  pleasure  of  a  child.  In  their  games, 
which  had  already  commenced,  he  joined 
heartily,  gaining  high  favor  with  both 
men  and  women.  When  the  great 
clothes-basket  full  of  sweeties,  the  result 
of  a  subscription  among  the  young  men, 
was  carried  round  by  two  of  them,  he 
helped  himself  liberally  with  the  rest, 
and  at  the  inevitable  game  of  forfeits 
met  his  awards  with  unflinching  obedi- 
ence ;  contriving  ever  through  it  all  that 
Lizzy  Findlay  should  feci  herself  his  fa- 


MALCOLM. 


115 


vorite.  In  the  general  hilarity  neither 
the  heightened  color  of  her  cheek  nor 
the  vivid  sparkle  in  her  eyes  attracted 
notice.  Doubtless  some  of  the  girls  ob- 
served the  frequency  of  his  attentions, 
but  it  woke  nothing  in  their  minds  be- 
yond a  little  envy  of  her  passing  good 
fortune. 

Meikleham  was  handsome  and  a  lord ; 
Lizzy  was  pretty,  though  a  fisherman's 
daughter :  a  sort  of  Darwinian  selection 
had  apparently  found  place  between 
them ;  but  as  the  same  entertainment 
was  going  on  in  two  houses  at  once,  and 
there  was  naturally  a  good  deal  of  pass- 
ing and  repassing  between  them,  no  one 
took  the  least  notice  of  several  short  ab- 
sences from  the  company  on  the  part  of 
the  pair. 

Supper  followed,  at  which  his  lordship 
sat  next  to  Lizzy  and  partook  of  dried 
skate  and  mustard,  bread  and  cheese 
and  beer.  Every  man  helped  himself 
Lord  Meikleham  and  a  few  others  were 
accommodated  with  knives  and  forks, 
but  the  most  were  independent  of  such 
artificial  aids.  Whisky  came  next,  and 
Lord  Meikleham,  being  already,  like 
many  of  the  young  men  of  his  time, 
somewhat  fond  of  strong  drink,  was  not 
content  with  such  sipping  as  Lizzy  hon- 
ored his  glass  withal. 

At  length  it  was  time,  according  to 
age-long  custom,  to  undress  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  and  put  them  to  bed — 
dhe  bride's  stocking,  last  ceremony  of  all, 
being  thrown  amongst  the  company,  as 
by  its  first  contact  prophetic  of  the  per- 
son to  be  next  married.  Neither  Lizzie 
nor  Lord  Meikleham,  however,  had  any 
chance  of  being  thus  distinguished,  for 
they  were  absent  and  unmissed. 

As  soon  as  all  was  over  Malcolm  set 
out  to  return  home.  As  he  passed  Joseph 
Mair's  cottage  he  found  Phemy  waiting 
for  him  at  the  door,  still  in  the  mild 
splendor  of  her  pearl-like  necklace. 

"I  tellt  the  laird  what  ye  tellt  me  to  tell 
him,  Ma'colm,"  she  said. 

"An'  what  did  he  say,  Phemy?"  asked 
Malcolm. 

"  He  said  he  kent  ye  was  a  freen'." 

"Was  that  a'  ?" 

"Ay,  that  was  a'." 


"Weel,  ye're  a  guid  lassie." 

"Ow!  middlin',"  answered  the  little 
maiden. 

Malcolm  took  his  way  along  the  top 
of  the  cliffs,  pausing  now  and  then  to 
look  around  him.  The  crescent  moon 
had  gone  down,  leaving  a  star-lit  night, 
in  which  the  sea  lay  softly  moaning  at 
the  foot  of  the  broken  crags.  The  sense 
of  infinitude  which  comes  to  the  soul 
when  it  is  in  harmony  with  the  peace  of 
Nature  arose  and  spread  itself  abroad  in 
Malcolm's  being,  and  he  felt  with  the 
Galileans  of  old,  when  they  forsook  their 
nets  and  followed  Him  who  called  them, 
that  catching  fish  was  not  the  end  of  his 
being,  although  it  was  the  work  his  hands 
had  found  to  do.  The  stillness  was  all 
the  sweeter  for  its  contrast  with  the  mer- 
riment he  had  left  behind  him,  and  a 
single  breath  of  wind,  like  the  waft  from 
a  passing  wing,  kissed  his  forehead  ten- 
derly, as  if  to  seal  the  truth  of  his  medi- 
tations. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 
FLORIMEL   AND   DUNCAN. 

In  the  course  of  a  fortnight  Lord  Mei- 
kleham and  his  aunt,  the  bold-faced 
countess,  had  gone,  and  the  marquis, 
probably  finding  it  a  little  duller  in  con- 
sequence, began  to  pay  visits  in  the 
neighborhood.  Now  and  then  he  would 
be  absent  for  a  week  or  two — at  Bog  o' 
Gight,  or  Huntly  Lodge,  or  Frendraught, 
or  Balvenie — and  although  Lady  Flori- 
mel  had  not  had  much  of  his  society, 
she  missed  him  at  meals,  and  felt  the 
place  grown  dreary  from  his  being  no- 
where within  its  bounds. 

On  his  return  from  one  t)f  his  longer 
absences  he  began  to  talk  to  her  about  a 
governess,  but,  though  in  a  playful  wav, 
she  rebelled  utterly  at  the  first  mention 
of  such  an  incubus.  She  had  plenty  of 
material  for  study,  she  said,  in  the  library, 
and  plenty  of  amusement  in  wandering 
about  with  the  sullen  Demon,  who  was 
her  constant  companion  during  his  ab- 
sences ;  and  if  he  did  force  a  governess 
upon  her  she  would  certainly  murder  the 
woman,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  bringing 


ii6 


MALCOLM. 


him  into  trouble.  Her  easy-going  father 
was  amused,  laughed,  and  said  nothing 
more  on  the  subject  at  the  time. 

Lady  Florimel  did  not  confess  that  she 
had  begun  to  feel  her  life  monotonous, 
or  mention  that  she  had  for  some  time 
been  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  a 
few  of  her  poor  neighbors,  and  finding 
their  odd  ways  of  life  and  thought  and 
speech  interesting.  She  had  especially 
taken  a  liking  to  Duncan  MacPhail,  in 
which,  strange  to  say,  Demon,  who  had 
hitherto  absolutely  detested  the  appear- 
ance of  any  one  not  attired  as  a  lady  or 
gentleman,  heartily  shared.  She  found 
the  old  man  so  unlike  anything  she  had 
ever  heard  or  read  of — so  full  of  grand 
notions  in  such  contrast  with  his  poor 
conditions — so  proud  yet  so  overflowing 
with  service,  dusting  a  chair  for  her  with 
his  bonnet,  yet  drawing  himself  up  like 
an  offended  hidalgo  if  she  declined  to  sit 
in  it — more  than  content  to  play  the  pipes 
while  others  dined,  yet  requiring  a  per- 
sonal apology  from  the  marquis  himself 
for  a  practical  joke — so  full  of  kindness, 
and  yet  of  revenges,  lamenting  over  De- 
mon when  he  hurt  his  foot,  yet  cursing, 
as  she  overheard  him  once,  in  fancied 
solitude,  with  an  absolute  fervor  of  im- 
precation, a  continuous  blast  of  poetic 
hate  which  made  her  shiver;  and  the 
next  moment  sighing  out  a  most  wailful 
coronach  on  his  old  pipes.  It  was  all  so 
odd,  so  funny,  so  interesting.  It  nearly 
made  her  aware  of  human  nature  as  an 
object  of  study.  But  Lady  Florimel  had 
never  studied  anything  yet,  had  never 
even  perceived  that  anything  wanted 
studying — that  is,  demanded  to  be  un- 
derstood. What  appeared  to  her  most 
odd,  most  inconsistent,  and  was  indeed 
of  all  his  peculiarities  alone  distasteful  to 
her,  was  his  delight  in  what  she  regarded 
only  as  the  menial  and  dirty  occupation 
of  cleaning  lamps  and  candlesticks  :  the 
poetic  side  of  it,  rendered  tenfold  poetic 
by  his  blindness,  she  never  saw. 

Then  he  had  such  tales  to  tell  her  of 
mountain,  stream  and  lake;  of  love  and 
revenge ;  of  beings  less  and  more  than 
natural — brownie  and  Boneless,  kelpie 
and  fairy ;  such  wild  legends  also,  haunt- 
mg  the   dim   emergent  peaks  of  mist- 


swathed  Celtic  history ;  such  songs,  come 
down,  he  said,  from  Ossian  himself,  that 
sometimes  she  would  sit  and  listen  to 
him  for  hours  together. 

It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  she  should 
win  the  heart  of  the  simple  old  man 
speedily,  for  what  can  bard  desire  be- 
yond a  true  listener — a  mind  into  which 
his  own  may,  in  verse  or  tale  or  rhapso- 
dy, in  pibroch  or  coronach,  overflow  ? 
But  when,  one  evening,  in  girlish  merri- 
ment, she  took  up  his  pipes,  blew  the 
bag  full,  and  began  to  let  a  highland  air 
burst  fitfully  from  the  chanter,  the  jubila- 
tion of  the  old  man  broke  all  the  bounds 
of  reason.  He  jumped  from  his  seat 
and  capered  about  the  room,  calling  her 
all  the  tenderest  and  most  poetic  names 
his  English  vocabulary  would  afford 
him ;  then  abandoning  the  speech  of  the 
Sassenach,  as  if  in  despair  of  ever  utter- 
ing himself  through  its  narrow  and  rug- 
ged channels,  overwhelmed  her  with  a 
cataract  of  soft-flowing  Gaelic,  returning 
to  English  only  as  his  excitement  passed 
over  into  exhaustion,  but  in  neither  case 
aware  of  the  transition. 

Her  visits  were  the  greater  comfort  to 
Duncan  that  Malcolm  was  now  absent 
almost  every  night,  and  most  days  a 
good  many  hours  asleep :  had  it  been 
otherwise,  Florimel,  invisible  for  very 
width  as  was  the  gulf  between  them, 
could  hardly  have  made  them  so  fre- 
quent. Before  the  fishing-season  was 
over  the  piper  had  been  twenty  times  on 
the  verge  of  disclosing  every  secret  in  his 
life  to  the  high-born  maiden. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  haven't  a  wife  to  take 
care  of  you,  Mr.  MacPhail,"  she  said  one 
evening.  "You  must  be  so  lonely  with- 
out a  woman  to  look  after  you." 

A  dark  cloud  came  over  Duncan's 
face,  out  of  which  his  sightless  eyes 
gleamed.  "She'll  haf  her  poy,  and 
she'll  pe  wanting  no  wife,"  he  said  sul- 
lenly.    "Wifes  is  paad." 

"Ah,"  said  Florimel,  the  teasing  spirit 
of  her  father  uppermost  for  the  moment, 
"that  accounts  for  your  swearing  so 
shockingly  the  other  day.''" 

"Swearing,  was  she?  Tat  will  be 
wrong.  y\nd  who  was  she  '11  pc  swear- 
ing at  ?" 


MALCOLM. 


117 


"That's  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me, 
Mr.  MacPhail." 

"  Did  you'll  hear  her,  my  laty  ?"  he 
asked  in  a  tone  of  reflection,  as  if  trying 
to  recall  the  circumstance. 

"Indeed  I  did.  You  frightened  me  so 
that  I  didn't  dare  come  in." 

"Then  she'll  pe  punished  enough. 
Put  it  wass  no  harm  to  curse  ta  wicket 
Cawmill." 

"It  was  not  Glenlyon — it  wasn't  a  man 
at  all :  it  was  a  woman  you  were  in  such 
a  rage  with." 

"Was  it  ta  rascal's  wife,  then,  my 
laty  ?"  he  asked,  as  if  he  were  willing 
to  be  guided  to  the  truth  that  he  might 
satisfy  her,  but  so  much  in  the  habit  of 
swearing  that  he  could  not  well  recollect 
the  particular  object  at  a  given  time. 

"Is  his  wife  as  bad  as  himself,  then?" 

"Wifes  is  aalways  worsen" 

"  But  what  is  it  makes  you  hate  him 
so  dreadfully  ?     Is  he  a  bad  man  ?" 

"A  ferry  bad  man,  my  tear  laty.  He 
is  tead  more  than  a  hundert  years." 

"  Then  why  do  you  hate  him  so  ?" 

"Ochhone!  Ton't  you'll  never  hear 
why  ?" 

"He  can't  have  done/<?z<;  any  harm." 

"Not  done  old  Tuncan  any  harm! 
Tidn't  you'll  know  what  ta  tog  would  pe 
toing  to  her  ancestors  of  Glenco  !  Och 
hone  !  och  hone  !  Gif  her  ta  tog's  heart 
of  him  in  her  teeth,  and  she'll  pe  tear- 
ing it — tearing  it — tearing  it !"  cried  the 
piper  in  a  growl  of  hate  and  with  the 
look  of  a  maddened  tiger,  the  skin  of 
his  face  drawn  so  tight  over  the  bones 
that  they  seemed  to  show  their  whiteness 
through  it. 

"You  quite  terrify  me,"  said  Florimel, 
really  shocked.  "  If  you  talk  like  that  I 
must  go  away.  Such  words  are  not  fit 
for  a  lady  to  hear." 

The  old  man  heard  her  rise :  he  fell 
on  his  knees  and  held  out  his  arms  in 
entreaty. 

"  She's  pegging  your  pardons,  my  laty. 
Sit  town  once  more,  anchel  from  hefen, 
and  she'll  not  say  it  no  more.  Put  she'll 
pe  telling  you  ta  story,  and  then  you'll 
pe  knowing  tat  what  '11  not  pe  fit  for 
laties  to  hear,  as  coot  laties  had  to  pear." 

He  caught  up  the  Lossie  pipes,  threw 


them  down  again,  searched  in  a  frenzy 
till  he  found  his  own,  blew  up  the  bag 
with  short  quick  pants,  forced  from  them 
a  low  wail,  which  ended  in  a  scream, 
then  broke  into  a  kind  of  chant,  the 
words  of  which  were  something  like 
what  follows :  he  had  sense  enough  left 
to  remember  that  for  his  listener  they 
must  be  English.  Doubtless  he  was 
translating  as  he  went  on.  His  chanter 
all  the  time  kept  up  a  low  pitiful  accom- 
paniment, his  voice  only  giving  expres- 
sion to  the  hate  and  execration  of  the 
song : 

Black  rise  the  hills  round  the  vale  of  Glenco; 
Hard  rise  its  rocks  up  the  sides  of  the  sky  ; 
Cold  fall  the  streams  from  the  snow  on  their  summits; 
Bitter  are  the  winds  that  search  for  the  wanderer; 
False  are  the  vapors  that  trail  o'er  the  correi  : 
Blacker  than  caverns  that  hollow  the  mountain, 
Harder  than  crystals  in  the  rock's  bosom, 
Colder  than  ice  borne  down  in  the  torrents, 
More  bitter  than  hail  wind-swept  o'er  the  correi. 
Falser  than  vapors  that  hide  the  dark  precipice, 
Is  the  heart  of  the  Campbell,  the  hell-hound  Glenlyon. 

Is  it  blood  that  is  streaming  down  into  the  valley  ? 
Ha!  'tis  the  red-coated  bloodhounds  of  Orange. 

To  hunt  the  red  deer,  is  this  a  fit  season  ? 
Glenlyon,  said  Ian,  the  son  of  the  chieftain, 
What  seek  ye  with  guns  and  with  gillies  so  many  ? 

Friends,  a  warm  fire,  good  cheer,  and  a  drink. 
Said  the  liar  of  hell,  with  the  death  in  his  heart. 

Come  home  to  my  house — it  is  poor,  but  your  own. 

Cheese  of  the  goat,  and  flesh  of  bUck  cattle, 
And  dew  of  the  mountain  to  make  their  hearts  joyful. 
They  gave  them  in  plenty,  they  gave  them  with  wel- 
come ; 
And  they  slept  on  the  heather  and  skins  of  the  red 
deer. 

Och  hone  for  the  chief!  God's  curse  on  the  traitors  ! 
Och  hone  for  the  chief,  the  father  of  his  people  ! 
He  is  struck  through  the  brain,  and  not  in  the  battle ! 

Och  hone  for  his  lady  !  the  teeth  of  the  badgers 
Have  torn  the  bright  rings  from  her  slender  fingers  ! 
They  have  stripped  her,  and  shamed  her  in  sight  of 

her  clansmen ! 
They  have  sent  out  her  ghost  to  cry  after  her  husband. 

Nine  men  did  Glenlyon  slay,  nine  of  the  true  hearts  1 
His  own  host  he  slew,  the  laird  of  Inverriggen. 

Fifty  they  slew — the  rest  fled  to  the  mountains. 
In  the  deep  snow  the  women  and  children 
Fell  down  and  slept,  nor  awoke  in  the  morning. 

The  bard  of  the  glen,  alone  among  strangers, 
AUister,  bard  of  the  glen  and  the  mountain. 
Sings  peace  to  the  ghost  of  his  father's  father, 
Slain  by  the  curse  of  Glenco,  Glenlyon. 

Curse  on  Glenlyon  !     His  wife's  fair  bosom 
Dry  up  with  weeping  the  fates  of  her  children  ! 
Curse  on  Glenlyon  !     Each  drop  of  his  heart's  Wood 


ii8 


MALCOLM. 


Turn  to  red  fire  and  burn  through  his  arteries  ! 
The  pale  murdered  faces  haunt  him  to  madness  ! 
The  shrieks  of  the  ghosts  from  the  mists  of  Glenco 
Ring  in  his  ears  through  the  caves  of  perdition  ! 
Man,  woman,  and  child,  to  the  last-born  Campbell, 
Rush  howling  to  hell,  and  fall  cursing  Glenlyon  — 
The  liar  who  drank  with  his  host  and  then  slew  him  I 

While  he  chanted  the  whole  being  of 
the  bard  seemed  to  pour  itself  out  in  the 
feeble  and  quavering  tones  that  issued 
from  his  withered  throat.  His  voice 
grew  in  energy  for  a  while  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, but  at  last  gave  way  utterly  un- 
der the  fervor  of  imprecation,  and  ceased. 
Then,  as  if  in  an  agony  of  foiled  hate, 
he  sent  from  chanter  and  drone  a  per- 
fect screech  of  execration,  with  which  the 
instrument  dropped  from  his  hands  and 
he  fell  back  in  his  chair  speechless. 

Lady  Florimel  started  to  her  feet,  and 
stood  trembling  for  a  moment,  hesita- 
ting whether  to  run  from  the  cottage  and 
call  for  help,  or  do  what  she  might  for 
the  old  man  herself.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment he  came  to  himself,  saying  in  a 
tone  of  assumed  composure,  "You'll  pe 
knowing  now,  my  laty,  why  she'll  pe 
hating  ta  ferry  name  of  Clenlyon." 

"  But  it  wasn't  your  grandfather  that 
Glenlyon  killed,  Mr.  MacPhail,  was  it  ?" 

"And  whose  grandfather  would  it  pe 
then,  my  laty  ?"  returned  Duncan,  draw- 
ing himself  up. 

"The  Glenco  people  weren't  Mac- 
Phails.  I've  read  the  story  of  the  mas- 
sacre, and  know  all  about  that." 

"He  might  haf  peen  her  mother's 
father,  me  laty." 

"  But  you  said  father  s  father,  in  your 
song." 

"  She  said  Allister's  father's  father,  my 
laty,  she  pclieves." 

"I  can't  quite  understand  you,  Mr. 
MacPhail." 

"Well,  you  see,  my  laty,  her  father 
was  out  in  the  Forty-five  and  fought  ta 
red-coats  at  Culloden.  That's  his  clay- 
more on  ta  wall  there — a  coot  plade, 
though  she's  not  an  Andrew  Ferrara. 
She  wass  forched  in  Clenco  py  a  cousin 
of  her  own,  Angus  py  name,  and  she's 
a  ferry  coot  plade  :  she  '11  can  well  whistle 
ta  pibroch  of  Ian  Lom  apout  ta  cars  of 
ta  Sassenach.  Her  Grandfather  wass  with 
his  uncle  in  ta  pattle  of  Killiecrankie 


after  Tundee — a  creat  man,  mylaj:y,  and 
he  died  there ;  and  so  did  her  crand- 
uncle,  for  a  fiUain  of  a  IMackay,  from 
Lord  Reay's  cursed  country — where  they 
aalways  wass  repels,  my  laty — chust  as 
her  uncle  was  pe  cutting  town  ta  wick- 
et Cheneral  Mackay,  turned  him  round, 
without  gifing  no  warnings,  and  killed 
ta  poor  man  at  won  plow." 

"  But  what  has  it  all  to  do  with  your 
name  ?  I  declare  I  don't  know  what  to 
call  you." 

"  Call  her  your  own  pard,  old  Tuncan 
MacPhail,  my  sweet  laty,  and  haf  ta  pa- 
tience with  her,  and  she'll  pe  telling  you 
aall  apout  eferything,  only  you  must  gif 
her  olt  prains  time  to  tumple  themselfs 
apout.  Her  head  crows  very  stupid. — 
Yes,  as  she  was  saying,  after  ta  ploody 
massacre  at  Culloden  her  father  had  to 
hide  himself  away  out  of  sight,  and  to 
forge  himself:  I  mean  to  put  upon  him- 
self a  name  that  didn't  mean  himself  at 
aal.  And  my  poor  mother,  who  pored 
me — pig  old  Tuncan — ta  ferry  tay  of  ta 
pattle,  would  not  be  hearing  won  wort 
of  him  for  tree  months  tat  he  was  away  ; 
and  when  he  would  pe  creep  pack  like 
a  fox  to  see  her  one  fine  night  when  ta 
moon  was  not  pe  up,  they'll  make  up  an 
acreement  to  co  away  together  for  a  time, 
and  to  call  themselves  MacPhails.  But 
py  and  py  they  took  their  own  nems 
acain." 

"  And  why  haven't  you  your  own  name 
now  ?  I'm  sure  it's  a  much  prettier 
name." 

"Pecause  she'll  pe  taking  the  other, 
my  tear  laty." 

"And  why?" 

"Pecause — pecause —  She  w^ill  tell 
you  another  time.  She'll  pe  tired  to 
talk  more  apout  ta  cursed  Cawmills  this 
ferry  day." 

"Then  Malcolm's  name  is  not  Mac- 
Phail either?" 

"  No,  it  is  not,  my  laty." 

"  Is  he  your  son's  son  or  your  daugh- 
ter's son  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  laty." 

"  I  want  to  know  what  his  real  name 
is.  Is  it  the  same  as  yours  ?  It  doesn't 
seem  respectable  not  to  have  your  own 
names." 


MALCOLM. 


119 


"Oh  yes,  my  laty,  ferry  respectable. 
Many  coot  men  has  to  porrow  nems  of 
their  neighpors.  We've  all  cot  our  ferry 
own  names,  only  in  paad  tays,  my  laty, 
we  ton't  aalways  know  which  they  are 
exactly  ;  but  we  aal  know  which  we  are 
each  other,  and  we  get  on  ferry  coot 
without  the  names.  We  lay  them  py 
with  our  Sappath  clothes  for  a  few  tays, 
and  they  come  out  ta  fresher  and  ta 
sweeter  for  keeping  ta  Sappath  so  long, 
my  laty.  And  now  she'll  pe  playing 
you  ta  coronach  of  Clenco,  which  she 
was  make  herself  for  her  own  pipes." 

"  I  want  to  know  first  what  Malcolm's 
real  name  is,"  persisted  Lady  Florimel. 

"W^ell,  you  see,  my  laty,"  returned 
Duncan,  "  some  peoples  has  names  and 
does  not  know  them  ;  and  some  people 
hasn't  names,  and  will  pe  supposing  they 
haf." 

"You  are  talking  riddles,  Mr.  Mac- 
Phail,  and  I  don't  like  riddles,"  said 
Lady  Florimel,  with  an  offence  which 
was  not  altogether  pretended. 

"Yes  surely — oh,  yes!  Call  her  Tun- 
can  MacPhail,  and  neither  more  nor  less, 
my  laty — not  yet,"  he  returned,  most 
evasively. 

"I  see  you  won't  trust  me,"  said  the 
girl,  and  rising  quickly  she  bade  him 
good-night  and  left  the  cottage. 

Duncan  sat  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
as  if  in  distress ;  then  slowly  his  hand 
went  out  feeling  for  his  pipes,  where- 
withal he  consoled  himself  till  bed-time. 

Having  plumed  herself  upon  her  in- 
fluence with  the  old  man,  believing  she 
could  do  anything  with  him  she  pleased. 
Lady  Florimel  was  annoyed  at  failing  to 
get  from  him  any  amplification  of  a 
hint  in  itself  sufficient  to  cast  a  glow  of 
romance  about  the  youth  who  had  al- 
ready interested  her  so  much.  Duncan 
also  was  displeased,  but  with  himself  for 
disappointing  one  he  loved  so  much. 
With  the  passion  for  confidences  which 
love  generates,  he  had  been  for  some 
time  desirous  of  opening  his  mind  to  her 
upon  the  matter  in  question,  and  had  in- 
deed, on  this  very  occasion,  intended  to 
lead  up  to  a  certain  disclosure,  but  just 
at  the  last  he  clung  to  his  secret  and 
could  not  let  it  go. 


Compelled  thereto  against  the  natural 
impulse  of  the  Celtic  nature,  which  is 
open  and  confiding,  therefore  in  the  re- 
action cunning  and  suspicious,  he  had 
practiced  reticence  so  long  that  he  now 
recoiled  from  a  breach  of  the  habit  which 
had  become  a  second,  false  nature.  He 
felt  like  one  who  having  caught  a  bird 
holds  it  in  his  hand  with  the  full  inten- 
tion of  letting  it  go,  but  cannot  make  up 
his  mind  to  do  it  just  yet,  knowing  that 
the  moment  he  opens  his  hand  nothing 
can  make  that  bird  his  again. 

A  whole  week  passed,  during  which 
Lady  Florimel  did  not  come  near  him, 
and  the  old  man  was  miserable.  At 
length  one  evening — for  she  chose  her 
time  when  Malcolm  must  be  in  some 
vague  spot  between  the  shore  and  the 
horizon  —  she  once  more  entered  the 
piper's  cottage.  He  knew  her  step  the 
moment  she  turned  the  corner  from  the 
shore,  and  she  had  scaixely  set  her  foot 
across  the  threshold  before  he  broke  out : 
"Ach,  my  tear  laty,  and  did  you'll  think 
old  Tuncan  such  a  stoopit  old  man  as 
not  to  '11  pe  trusting  ta  light  of  her  plind 
eyes  ?  Put  her  laty  must  forgif  her,  for 
it  is  a  long  tale,  not  like  anything  you  11 
pe  in  ta  way  of  peliefing ;  and  aalso  it'll 
pe  but  ta  tassel  to  another  long  tale  which 
tears  ta  pag  of  her  heart,  and  makes  her 
feel  a  purning  tevil  in  ta  pocket  of  her 
posom.  Put  she'll  tell  you  ta  won  half 
of  it  that  pelongs  to  her  poy  Malcolm. 
He  's  a  pig  boy  now,  put  he  wasn't  aal- 
ways. No.  He  was  once  a  ferry  little 
smaal  chylt,  in  her  old  plind  arms.  But 
they  wasn't  old  then.  Why  must  young 
peoples  crow  old,  my  laty  .''  Put  she'll 
pe  clad  of  it  herself,  for  she'll  can  hate 
ta  petter." 

Lady  Florimel,  incapable  either  of  set- 
ting forth  the  advantages  of  growing  old 
or  of  enforcing  the  duty — which  is  the 
necessity — of  forgiveness,  answered  with 
some  commonplace,  and,  as  to  fortify  his 
powers  of  narration  a  sailor  would  cut 
himself  a  quid  and  a  gentleman  fill  his 
glass  or  light  a  fresh  cigar,  Duncan  slow- 
ly filled  his  bag.  After  a  few  strange 
notes,  as  of  a  spirit  wandering  in  pain, 
he  began  his  story.  But  I  will  ttU  the 
tale  for  him,  lest  the  printed  oddities  of 


I20 


MALCOLM. 


his  pronunciation  should  prove  weari- 
some. I  must  mention  first,  however, 
that  he  did  not  commence  until  he  had 
secured  a  promise  from  Lady  Florimel 
that  she  would  not  communicate  his  rev- 
elations to  Malcolm,  having,  he  said, 
very  good  reasons  for  desiring  to  make 
them  himself  so  soon  as  a  fitting  time 
should  have  arrived. 

Avoiding  all  mention  of  his  reasons 
either  for  assuming  another  name  or  for 
leaving  his  native  glen,  he  told  how, 
having  wandered  forth  with  no  compan- 
ion but  his  bagpipes,  and  nothing  he 
could  call  his  own  beyond  the  garments 
and  weapons  which  he  wore,  he  traversed 
the  shires  of  Inverness  and  Nairn  and 
Moray,  offering  at  every  house  on  his 
road  to  play  the  pipes  or  clean  the  lamps 
and  candlesticks,  and  receiving  sufficient 
return,  mostly  in  the  shape  of  food  and 
shelter,  but  partly  in  money,  to  bring 
him  all  the  way  from  Glenco  to  Portlos- 
sie.  Somewhere  near  the  latter  was  a 
cave  in  which  his  father,  after  his  flight 
from  Culloden,  had  lain  in  hiding  for  six 
months,  in  hunger  and  cold  and  in  con- 
stant peril  of  discovery  and  death,  all  in 
that  region  being  rebels,  for  as  such  Dun- 
can of  course  regarded  the  adherents  of 
the  houses  of  Orange  and  Hanover ;  and 
having  occasion,  for  reasons,  as  I  have 
said,  unexplained,  in  his  turn  to  seek, 
like  a  hunted  stag,  a  place  far  from  his 
beloved  glen  wherein  to  hide  his  head, 
he  had  set  out  to  find  the  cave,  which 
the  memory  of  his  father  would  render 
far  more  of  a  home  to  him  now  than  any 
other  place  left  him  on  earth. 

On  his  arrival  at  Portlossie  he  put  up 
at  a  small  public  house  in  the  Seaton, 
from  which  he  started  the  next  morning 
to  find  the  cave — a  somewhat  hopeless 
as  well  as  perilous  proceeding ;  but  his 
father's  description  of  its  situation  and 
character  had  generated  such  a  vivid 
imagination  of  it  in  the  mind  of  the  old 
,man  that  he  believed  himself  able  to 
walk  straight  into  the  mouth  of  it ;  nor 
was  the  peril  so  great  as  must  at  first  ap- 
pear, to  one  who  had  been  blind  all  his 
life.  But  he  searched  the  whole  of  the 
east  side  of  the  promontory  of  Scaur- 
nose,  where  it  must  lie,  without  finding 


such  a  cave  as  his  father  had  depicted. 
Again  and  again  he  fancied  he  had  come 
upon  it,  but  was  speedily  convinced  of 
his  mistake.  Even  in  one  who  had  his 
eyesight,  however,  such  a  failure  would 
not  surprise  those  who  understand  how 
rapidly  as  well  as  constantly  the  whole 
faces  of  some  cliffs  are  changing  by  the 
fall  of  portions — destroying  the  very  ex- 
istence of  some  caves  and  utterly  chang- 
ing the  mouths  of  others. 

From  a  desire  of  secresy,  occasioned 
by  the  haunting  dread  of  its  approach- 
ing necessity,  day  and  night  being  other- 
wise much  alike  to  him,  Duncan  gene- 
rally chose  the  night  for  his  wanderings 
amongst  the  rocks  and  probings  of  their 
hollows. 

One  night — or  rather  morning,  for  he 
believed  it  was  considerably  past  twelve 
o'clock — he  sat  weary  in  a  large  open 
cave,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  rising 
tide,  and  fell  fast  asleep,  his  bagpipes, 
without  which  he  never  went  abroad, 
across  his  knees.  He  came  to  himself 
with  a  violent  start,  for  the  bag  seemed 
to  be  moving,  and  its  last  faint  sound  of 
wail  was  issuing.  Heavens !  there  was 
a  baby  lying  upon  it !  For  a  time  he  sat 
perfectly  bewildered,  but  at  length  con- 
cluded that  some  wandering  gypsy  had 
made  him  a  too  ready  gift  of  the  child 
she  did  not  prize.  Some  one  must  be 
near.  He  called  aloud,  but  there  was  no 
answer.  The  child  began  to  cry.  He 
sought  to  soothe  it,  and  its  lamentations 
ceased.  The  moment  that  its  welcome 
silence  responded  to  his  blandishments, 
the  still  small  "  Here  I  am  "  of  the  Eter- 
nal Love  whispered  its  presence  in  the 
heart  of  the  lonely  man  :  something  lay 
in  his  arms  so  helpless  that  to  it,  poor 
and  blind  and  forsaken  of  man  and  wo- 
man as  he  was,  he  was  yet  a  tower  of 
strength.  He  clasped  the  child  to  his 
bosom,  and  rising  forthwith  set  out,  but 
with  warier  steps  than  heretofore,  over 
the  rocks  for  the  Seaton. 

Already  he  would  have  much  pre- 
ferred concealing  him  lest  he  should  be 
claimed — a  thing,  in  view  of  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, not  very  likely — but  for  the 
child's  sake  he  must  carry  him  to  the 
"Salmon,"  where  he  had  free  entrance 


MALCOLM. 


121 


at  any  hour,  not  even  the  pubhc-house 
locking  its  doors  at  night 

Thither  then  he  bore  his  prize,  shield- 
ing him  from  the  night  air  as  well  as  he 
could  with  the  bag  of  his  pipes.  But  he 
waked  none  of  the  inmates  :  lately  fed, 
the  infant  slept  for  several  hours,  and 
then  did  his  best  both  to  rouse  and  as- 
tonish the  neighborhood. 

Closely  questioned,  Duncan  told  the 
truth,  but  cunningly,  in  such  manner 
that  some  disbelieved  him  altogether, 
while  others,  who  had  remarked  his 
haunting  of  the  rocks  ever  since  his 
arrival,  concluded  he  had  brought  the 
child  with  him,  and  had  kept  him  hid- 
den until  now.  The  popular  conviction 
at  length  settled  to  this,  that  the  child 
was  the  piper's  grandson,  but  base-born, 
whom  therefore  he  was  ashamed  to  ac- 
knowledge, although  heartily  willing  to 
minister  to  and  bring  up  as  a  foundling. 
The  latter  part  of  this  conclusion,  how- 
ever, was  not  alluded  to  by  Duncan  in 
his  narrative  :  it  was  enough  to  add  that 
he  took  care  to  leave  the  former  part  of 
it  undisturbed. 

The  very  next  day  he  found  himself 
attacked  by  a  low  fever,  but  as  he  had 
hitherto  paid  for  everything  he  had  at 
the  inn,  they  never  thought  of  turning 
him  out  when  his  money  was  exhausted ; 
and  as  he  had  already  by  his  discreet 
behavior  and  the  pleasure  his  bagpipes 
afforded  made  himself  not  a  few  friends 
amongst  the  simple-hearted  people  of 
the  Seaton,  some  of  the  benevolent  in- 
habitants of  the  upper  town.  Miss  Horn 
in  particular,  were  soon  interested  in 
his  favor,  and  supplied  him  with  every- 
thing he  required  until  his  recovery. 
As  to  the  baby,  he  was  gloriously  pro- 
vided for  :  he  had  at  lea^t  a  dozen  foster- 
mothers  at  once —  no  woman  in  the  Seaton 
who  could  enter  a  claim  founded  on  the 
possession  of  the  special  faculty  required 
failing  to  enter  that  claim — with  the  re- 
sult of  an  amount  of  jealousy  almost  in- 
credible. 

Meantime,  the  town-drummer  fell  sick 
and  died,  and  Miss  Horn  made  a  party 
in  favor  of  Duncan.  But  for  the  baby  I 
doubt  if  he  would  have  had  a  chance, 
for  he  was  a  stranger  and  interloper :  the 


j  women,  however,  with  the  baby  in  their 
j  fore-front,  carried  the  day.  Then  his 
I  opponents  retreated  behind  the  instru- 
I  ment,  and  strove  hard  to  get  the  drum 
j  recognized  as  an  essential  of  the  office. 
!  When  Duncan  recoiled  from  the  drum 
with  indignation,  but  without  losing  the 
j  support  of  his  party,  the  opposition  had 
the  effrontery  to  propose  a  bell :  that  he 
rejected  with  a  vehemence  of  scorn  that 
had  nearly  ruined  his  cause,  and,  assu- 
ming straightway  the  position  of  chief 
party  in  the  proposed  contract,  declared 
that  no  noise  of  his  making  should  be 
other  than  the  noise  of  bagpipes ;  that 
he  would  rather  starve  than  beat  drum 
or  ring  bell ;  if  he  served  in  the  case  it 
must  be  after  his  own  fashion  ;  and  so 
on.  Hence  it  was  no  wonder — some  of 
the  baillies  being  not  only  small  men, 
and  therefore  conceited  but  powerful 
Whigs,  who  despised  everything  high- 
land, and  the  bagpipes  especially — if  the 
affair  did  for  a  while  seem  hopeless. 
But  the  more  noble-minded  of  the  au- 
thorities approved  of  the  piper  none  the 
less  for  his  independence — a  generosity 
partly  rooted,  it  must  be  confessed,  in 
the  amusement  which  the  annoyance  of 
their  weaker  brethren  afforded  them ; 
whom  at  last  they  were  happily  success- 
ful in  outvoting,  so  that  the  bagpipes 
superseded  the  drum  for  a  season. 

It  may  be  asked  whence  it  arose  that 
Duncan  should  now  be  willing  to  quit  his 
claim  to  any  paternal  property  in  Mal- 
colm, confessing  that  he  was  none  of  his 
blood. 

One  source  of  the  change  was  doubt- 
less the  desire  of  confidences  between 
himself  and  Lady  Florimel ;  another, 
the  growing  conviction,  generated  it  may 
be  by  the  admiration  which  is  born  of 
love,  that  the  youth  had  gentle  blood  in 
his  veins  ;  and  a  third,  that  Duncan  had 
now  so  thoroughly  proved  the  heart  of 
Malcolm  as  to  have  no  fear  of  any 
change  of  fortune  ever  alienating  his 
affections  or  causing  him  to  behave  oth- 
erwise than  as  his  dutiful  grandson. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  such  a  tale 
should  have  a  considerable  influence  on 
Lady  Florimel's  imagination  :  out  of  the 
scanty  facts,  which  formed  but  a  second 


122 


MALCOLM. 


volume,  she  began  at  once  to  construct 
both  a  first  and  a  third.  She  dreamed  of 
the  young  fisherman  that  night,  and,  re- 
flecting in  the  morning  on  her  intercourse 
with  him,  recalled  sufficient  indications 
in  him  of  superiority  to  his  circumstances 
— noted  by  her  now,  however,  for  the 
first  time — to  justify  her  dream  :  he  might 
indeed  well  be  the  lost  scion  of  a  noble 
family. 

I  do  not  intend  the  least  hint  that  she 
began  to  fall  in  love  with  him.  To  bal- 
ance his  good  looks  and  the  nobility — 
to  keener  eyes  yet  more  evident  than 
to  hers — in  both  his  moral  and  physical 
carriage,  the  equally  undeniable  clown- 
ishness  of  his  dialect  and  tone  had  huge 
weight,  while  the  pecular  straightforward- 
ness of  his  behavior  and  address  not  un- 
frequently  savored  in  her  eyes  of  rude- 
ness ;  besides  which  objectionable  things, 
there  was  the  persistent  odor  of  fish  about 
his  garments — in  itself  sufficient  to  pre- 
vent such  a  catastrophe.  The  sole  re- 
sult of  her  meditations  was  the  resolve 
to  get  some  amusement  out  of  him  by 
means  of  a  knowledge  of  his  history 
superior  to  his  own. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
THE      REVIVAL. 

Before  the  close  of  the  herring-fishing 
one  of  those  movements  of  the  spiritual 
waters  which,  in  different  forms  and  un- 
der different  names,  manifest  themselves 
at  various  intervals  of  space  and  of  time, 
was  in  full  vortex.  It  was  supposed  by 
the  folk  of  Portlossie  to  have  begun  in 
the  village  of  Scaurnose,  but  by  the  time 
it  was  recognized  as  existent  no  one 
could  tell  whence  it  had  come,  any  more 
than  he  could  predict  whither  it  was 
going.  Of  its  spiritual  origin  it  may  be 
also  predicated  with  confidence  that  its 
roots  lay  deeper  than  human  insight 
could  reach,  and  were  far  more  inter- 
woven than  human  analysis  could  dis- 
entangle. 

One  notable  fact  bearing  on  its  nature 
was  that  it  arose  amongst  the  people 
themselves,  without  the  intervention  or 
immediate  operation  of  the  clergy,  who 


indeed  to  a  man  were  set  against  it. 
Hence  the  flood  was  at  first  free  from 
the  results  of  one  influence  most  pro- 
lific of  the  pseudo-spiritual — namely,  the 
convulsive  efforts  of  nien  with  faith  in  a 
certain  evil  system  of  theology  to  rouse 
a  galvanic  life  by  working  on  the  higher 
feelings  through  the  electric  sympathies 
of  large  assemblies  and  the  excitement 
of  late  hours,  prolonged  prayers  and  ex- 
hortations, and  sometimes  even  direct 
appeal  to  individuals  in  public  presence. 
The  end  of  these  things  is  death,  for  the 
reaction  is  toward  spiritual  hardness  and 
a  more  confirmed  unbelief:  when  the 
excitement  has  died  away,  those  at  least 
in  whom  the  spiritual  faculty  is  for  the 
time  exhausted,  presume  that  they  have 
tasted  and  seen,  and  found  that  nothing 
is  there.  The  whole  thing  is  closely  al- 
lied to  the  absurdity  of  those  who  would 
throw  down  or  who  would  accept  the 
challenge  to  test  the  reality  of  answer  to 
prayer  by  applying  the  force  of  a  multi- 
tudinous petition  to  the  will  of  the  sup- 
posed divinity.  I  S2iy  stepposed  divitiity, 
because  a  being  whose  will  could  be  thus 
moved  like  a  water-wheel  could  not  be 
in  any  sense  divine.  If  there  might  be 
a  religious  person  so  foolish  and  irrever- 
ent as  to  agree  to  such  a  test — crucial 
indeed,  but  in  a  far  other  sense  than  that 
imagined— I  would  put  it  to  him  whether 
the  very  sense  of  experiment  would  not 
destroy  in  his  mind  all  faculty  of  prayer — 
placing  him  in  the  position  no  more  of 
a  son  of  God,  but  of  one  who,  tempting 
the  Lord  his  God,  may  read  his  rebuke 
where  it  stands  recorded  for  the  ages. 

But  where  such  a  movement  has  origi- 
nated amongst  the  people,  the  very  facts 
adduced  to  argue  its  falsehood  from  its 
vulgarity  are  to  me  so  many  indications 
on  the  other  side ;  for  I  could  ill  believe 
in  a  divine  influence  which  did  not  take 
the  person  such  as  he  was — did  not, 
while  giving  him  power  from  beyond 
him,  leave  his  individuality  uninjured, 
yea  intensify  it,  subjecting  the  very  means 
of  its  purification,  the  spread  of  the  new 
leaven,  to  the  laws  of  time  and  growth. 
To  look  at  the  thing  from  the  other  side, 
the  genuineness  of  the  man's  reception 
of  it  will  be  manifest  in  the  meeting  of 


MALCOLM. 


123 


his  present  conditions  with  the  new  thing 
— in  the  show  of  results  natural  to  one 
of  his  degree  of  development.  To  hear 
a  rude  man  utter  his  experience  in  the 
forms  of  cultivation  would  be  at  once  to 
suspect  the  mere  glitter  of  a  reflex,  and 
to  doubt  an  illumination  from  within. 
I  repeat,  the  genuine  influence  shows  it- 
self such  in  showing  that  it  has  laid  hold 
of  the  verj'  man,  at  the  very  stage  of 
growth  he  had  reached.  The  dancing 
of  David  before  the  ark,  the  glow  of 
Saint  Stephen's  face,  and  the  wild  ges- 
tures and  rude  songs  of  miners  and  fish- 
ers and  negroes,  may  all  be  signs  of  the 
presence  of  the  same  spirit  in  temples 
various.  Children  will  rush  and  shout 
and  halloo  for  the  same  joy  which  sends 
others  of  the  family  to  weep  apart. 

Of  course  the  one  infallible  test  as  to 
whether  any  such  movement  is  of  man 
without  God,  or  of  God  within  the  man, 
is  the  following  life ;  only  a  large  space 
for  fluctuation  must  be  allowed  where  a 
whole  world  of  passions  and  habits  has 
to  be  subjected  to  the  will  of  God  through 
the  vicegerency  of  a  human  will  hardly 
or  only  just  awakened,  and  as  yet  un- 
conscious of  itself. 

The  nearest  Joseph  Mair  could  come 
to  the  origin  of  the  present  movement 
was  the  influence  of  a  certain  Stornoway 
fisherman,  whom  they  had  brought  back 
with  them  on  their  return  from  the  coasts 
of  Lewis — a  man  of  Celtic  fervor  and 
faith,  who  had  agreed  to  accompany 
them  probably  in  the  hope  of  serving 
a  set  of  the  bravest  and  hardest-working 
men  in  the  world,  who  yet  spent  a  large 
part  of  their  ease  in  drinking  up  the 
earnings  of  fierce  and  perilous  labor. 
There  were  a  few  amongst  them,  he 
found,  already  prepared  to  receive  the 
word,  and  to  each  of  these  he  spoke  in 
private.  They  spoke  to  one  another, 
then  each  to  his  friend  outside  the  little 
circle.  Next  a  few  met  to  pray.  These 
drew  others  in,  and  at  length  it  was  de- 
livered from  mouth  to  mouth  that  on  the 
following  Sunday,  at  a  certain  early  hour 
in  the  morning,  a  meeting  would  be  held 
in  the  Baillie's  Barn,  a  cave  large  enough 
to  receive  all  the  grown  population  of 
Scaurnose. 


The  news  of  this  gathering  of  course 
reached  the  Seaton,  where  some  were 
inclined  to  go  and  see,  others  to  go  and 
hear  ;  most  of  even  the  latter  class,  how- 
ever, being  at  the  same  time  more  than 
inclined  to  mock  at  the  idea  of  a  pop- 
ular religious  assembly. 

Not  so  Duncan  MacPhail,  who,  not- 
withstanding the  more  than  half-pagan 
character  of  his  ideas,  had  too  much 
reverence  to  mock  at  anything  in  the 
form  of  religion,  to  all  the  claims  of 
which  he  was  even  eager  to  assent : 
when  the  duty  of  forgiveness  was  press- 
ed upon  him  too  hard,  he  would  take  his 
last  refuge  in  excepting  to  the  authority 
of  the  messenger.  He  regarded  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  meeting  with  the 
greater  respect  that  the  man  from  Stor- 
noway was  a  MacLeod,  and  so  of  his 
mother's  clan. 

It  was  now  the  end  of  August,  when 
the  sky  is  of  a  paler  blue  in  the  day- 
time and  greener  about  the  sunset.  The 
air  had  in  it  a  touch  of  cold,  which,  like 
as  a  faint  acid  affects  a  sweet  drink,  only 
rendered  the  warmth  more  pleasant.  Oa 
the  appointed  morning  the  tide  was  low 
and  the  waves  died  gently  upon  the  sand, 
seeming  to  have  crept  away  from  the 
shore  to  get  nearer  to  the  sunrise.  Dun- 
can was  walking  along  the  hard  wet  sand 
toward  the  promontory,  with  Mr.  Gra- 
ham on  one  side  of  him  and  Malcolm  on 
the  other.  There  was  no  gun  to  fire  this 
morning ;  it  was  Sunday,  and  all  might 
repose  undisturbed  :  the  longer  sleep  in 
bed,  possibly  the  shorter  in  church. 

"  I  wish  you  had  your  sight  but  for  a 
moment,  Mr.  MacPhail,"  said  the  school- 
master. "  How  this  sunrise  would  make 
you  leap  for  joy  !" 

"  Ay  !"  said  Malcolm,  "  it  wad  gar  dad- 
dy grip  till  's  pipes  in  twa  hurries." 

"And  what  should  she'll  pe  wanting 
her  pipes  for?"  asked  Duncan. 

"To  praise  God  wi',"  answered  Mal- 
colm. 

"Ay,  ay,"  murmured  Duncan  thought- 
fully.    "They  are  that." 

"What  are  they  ?"  asked  Mr.  Graham 
gently. 

"For  to  praise  God,"  answered  Dun- 
can solemnly. 


124 


MALCOLM. 


"I  almost  envy  you,"  returned  Mr. 
Graham,  "when  I  think  how  you  will 
praise  God  one  day.  What  a  glorious 
waking  you  will  have  !" 

"  Then  it  '11  pe  your  opinion,  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, that  she'll  pe  sleeping  her  sound 
sleep,  and  not  pe  lying  wide  awake  in 
her  coffin  all  ta  time  ?" 

"A  good  deal  better  than  that,  Mr. 
MacPhail,"  returned  the  schoolmaster 
cheerily.  "  It's  my  opinion  that  you  are, 
as  it  were,  asleep  now,  and  that  the  mo- 
ment you  die  you  will  feel  as  if  you  had 
just  woke  up,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
your  life.  For  one  thing,  you  will  see 
far  better  then  than  any  of  us  do  now." 

But  poor  Duncan  could  not  catch  the 
idea  :  his  mind  was  filled  with  a  prevent- 
ing fancy.  "Yes  ;  1  know — at  ta  tay  of 
chutchment,"  he  said.  "Put  what  '11  pe 
ta  use  of  ketting  her  eyes  open  pefore 
she  '11  pe  up  1  How  should  she  pe  see- 
ing with  all  ta  earth  apove  her ;  and  ta 
cravestones  too  tat  I  know  my  poy  Mal- 
colm will  pe  laying  on  ta  top  of  his  old 
Grandfather  to  keep  him  warm,  and  let 
peoples  pe  know  tat  ta  plind  piper  will 
pe  lying  town  pelow  wide  awake  and 
ferry  uncomfortable  ?" 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  MacPhail,  but  that's 
all  a  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Graham  posi- 
tively. "  The  body  is  but  a  sort  of  shell 
that  we  cast  off  when  we  die,  as  the  corn 
casts  off  its  husk  when  it  begins  to  grow. 
The  life  of  the  seed  comes  up  out  of 
the  earth  in  a  new  body,  as  Saint  Paul 
says — " 

"Then,"  interrupted  Duncan,"  she'll  pe 
crowing  up  out  of  her  crave  like  a  seed 
crowing  up  to  pe  a  corn  or  a  parley  ?" 

The  schoolmaster  began  to  despair  of 
ever  conveying  to  the  piper  the  idea  that 
the  living  man  is  the  seed  sown,  and  that 
when  the  body  of  this  seed  dies,  then  the 
new  body,  with  the  man  in  it,  springs 
alive  out  of  the  old  one — that  the  death 
of  the  one  is  the  birth  of  the  other.  Far 
more  enlightened  people  than  Duncan 
never  imagine,  and  would  find  it  hard 
to  believe,  that  the  sowing  of  the  seed 
spoken  of  might  mean  something  else 
than  the  burying  of  the  body ;  not  per- 
ceiving what  yet  surely  is  plain  enough, 
that  that  would  be  the  sowing  of  a  seed 


already  dead  and  incapable  of  giving 
birth  to  anything  whatever. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  almost  impatiently, 
'^ you  will  never  be  in  the  grave :  it  is 
only  your  body  that  will  go  there,  with 
nothing  like  life  about  it  except  the  smile 
the  glad  soul  has  left  on  it.  The  poor 
body  when  thus  forsaken  is  so  dead  that 
it  can't  even  stop  smiling.  Get  Malcolm 
to  read  to  you  out  of  the  book  of  the 
Revelation  how  there  were  multitudes 
even  then  standing  before  the  throne. 
They  had  died  in  this  world,  yet  there 
they  were,  well  and  happy." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Duncan,  with  no  small 
touch  of  spiteful  ness  in  his  tone — "twang- 
twanging  at  teir  fine  colden  herps  !  She'll 
not  Idc  thinking  much  of  ta  herp  for  a 
music  -  maker  !  And  people  tells  her 
she'll  not  pe  hafing  her  pipes  tere  !  Och 
hone  !  och  hone  !  She'll  chust  pe  lying 
still  and  not  pe  ketting  up,  and  when  ta 
work  is  ofer  and  eferypody  cone  away, 
she'll  chust  pe  ketting  up  and  taking  a 
look  apout  her,  to  see  if  she'll  pe  finding 
a  stand  o'  pipes  that  some  coot  highland- 
man  has  peen  left  pehint  him  when  he 
died  lately." 

"You'll  find  it  rather  lonely,  won't 
you  ?" 

"  Yes,  no  toubt,  for  they'll  aal  pe  cone 
up.  Well,  she'll  haf  her  pipes  ;  and  she 
could  not  CO  where  ta  pipes  was  looked 
town  upon  by  all  ta  creat  people,  and  all 
ta  smaal  ones  too." 

They  had  now  reached  the  foot  of  the 
promontory,  and  turned  northward,  each 
of  his  companions  taking  an  arm  of  the 
piper  to  help  him  over  tlie  rocks  that  lay 
between  them  and  the  mouth  of  the  cave, 
which  soon  yawned  before  them  like  a 
section  of  the  mouth  of  a  great  fish.  Its 
floor  of  smooth  rock  had  been  swept  out 
clean  and  sprinkled  with  dry  sea  sand. 
There  were  many  hollows  and  projec- 
tions along  its  sides  rudely  fit  for  serving 
as  seats,  to  which  had  been  added  a 
number  of  forms  extemporized  of  planks 
and  thwarts.  No  one  had  yet  arrived 
when  they  entered,  and  they  went  at 
once  to  the  farther  end  of  the  cave,  that 
Duncan,  who  was  a  little  hard  of  hear- 
ing, might  be  close  to  the  speakers. 
There  his  companions  turned  and  look- 


MALCOLM. 


ed  behind  them  :  an  exclamation,  fol- 
lowed by  a  full  glance  at  each  other, 
broke  from  each. 

The  sun,  just  clearing  the  end  of  the 
opposite  promontory,  shone  right  into 
the  mouth  of  the  cave  from  the  midst  of 
a  tumult  of  gold,  in  which  all  the  other 
colors  of  his  approach  had  been  swallow- 
ed up.  The  triumph  strode  splendent 
over  sea  and  shore,  subduing  waves  and 
rocks  to  a  path  for  its  mighty  entrance 
into  that  dark  cave  on  the  human  coast. 

With  his  back  to  the  light  stood  Dun- 
can in  the  bottom  of  the  cave,  his  white 
hair  gleaming  argentine,  as  if  his  poor 
blind  head  were  the  very  goal  of  the 
heavenly  progress.  He  turned  round. 
"Will  it  pe  a  fire  ?  She  feels  something 
warm  on  her  head,"  he  said,  rolling  his 
sightless  orbs,  upon  which  the  splendor 
broke  waveless,  casting  a  grim  shadow 
of  him  on  the  jagged  rock  behind. 

"No,"  answered  Mr.  Graham:  "it  is 
the  sun  you  feel.  He's  just  out  of  his 
grave." 

The  old  man  gave  a  grunt. 

"I  often  think,"  said  the  schoolmaster 
to  Malcolm,  "that  possibly  the  reason 
why  we  are  told  so  little  about  the  world 
we  are  going  to  is,  that  no  description  of 
it  would  enter  our  minds,  any  more  than 
a  description  of  that  sunrise  would  carry 
a  notion  of  its  reahty  into  the  mind  of 
your  grandfather." 

"She'sobleechedtoyou,  Mr. Graham!" 
said  the  piper  with  offence.  "You  take 
her  ferry  stupid.  You're  so  proud  of  your 
eyes,  you  think  a  plind  man  cannot  see 
at  aall.     Ghm  !" 

But  the  folk  began  to  assemble.  By 
twos  and  threes,  now  from  the  one  side, 
now  from  the  other,  they  came  dropping 
in,  as  if  out  of  the  rush  of  the  blinding 
sunshine,  till  the  seats  were  nearly  filled, 
while  a  goodly  company  gathered  about 
the  mouth  of  the  cave,  there  to  await  the 
arrival  of  those  who  had  called  the  meet- 
ing. Presently  MacLeod,  a  small  thin 
man  with  iron-gray  hair,  keen,  shrewd 
features,  large  head  and  brown  complex- 
ion, appeared,  and  made  his  way  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  cave,  followed  by  three 
or  four  of  the  men  of  Scaurnose,  amongst 
whom  walked  a  pale-faced  consumptive 


lad  with  bowed  shoulders  and  eyes  on 
the  ground :  he  it  was  who,  feebly  clam- 
bering on  a  ledge  of  rock,  proceeded  to 
conduct  the  worship  of  the  assembly. 
His  parents  were  fisher-people  of  Scaur- 
nose,  who  to  make  a  minister  of  him  had 
been  half  starving  the  rest  of  their  fam- 
ily, but  he  had  broken  down  at  length 
under  the  hardship  of  endless  work  and 
wretched  food.  From  the  close  of  the 
session  in  March  he  had  been  teaching 
in  Aberdeen  until  a  few  days  before, 
when  he  came  home,  aware  that  he  was 
dying,  and  full  of  a  fervor  betraying 
anxiety  concerning  himself  rather  than 
indicating  the  possession  of  good  news 
for  others.  The  sun  had  now  so  far 
changed  his  position  that,  although  he 
still  shone  into  the  cave,  the  preacher 
stood  in  the  shadow,  out  of  which  gleam- 
ed his  wasted  countenance,  pallid  and 
sombre  and  solemn,  as  first  he  poured 
forth  an  abject  prayer  for  mercy,  con- 
ceived in  the  spirit  of  a  slave  supplicating 
the  indulgence  of  a  hard  master,  and 
couched  in  words  and  tones  that  bore 
not  a  trace  of  the  filial ;  then  read  the 
chapter  containing  the  curses  of  Mount 
Ebal,  and  gave  the  congregation  one  of 
Duncan's  favorite  psalms  to  sing,  and  at 
length  began  a  sermon  on  what  he  call- 
ed the  divine  justice.  Not  one  word 
was  there  in  it,  however,  concerning 
God's  love  of  fair  deahng,  either  as  be- 
twixt himself  and  man  or  as  betwixt 
man  and  his  fellow.  The  preacher's 
whole  notion  of  justice  was  the  punish- 
ment of  sin,  and  that  punishment  was 
hell  and  hell  only ;  so  that  the  whole 
sermon  was  about  hell  from  beginning 
to  end — hell  appalling,  lurid,  hopeless. 
And  the  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  upon  him 
with  that  glow  from  within  which  man- 
ifests the  listening  spirit.  Some  of  the 
women  were  pale  as  himself  from  sympa- 
thetic horror,  doubtless  also  from  a  vague 
stirring  of  the  conscience,  which,  without 
accusing  them  of  crime,  yet  told  them 
that  all  was  not  right  between  them  and 
their  God ;  while  the  working  of  the 
faces  of  some  of  the  men  betrayed  a 
mind  not  at  all  at  ease  concerning  their 
prospects.  It  was  an  eloquent  and  pow- 
erful utterance,  and  might  doubtless  claim 


126 


MALCOLM. 


its  place  in  the  economy  of  human  edu- 
cation ;  but  it  was  at  best  a  pagan  em- 
bodinent  of  truths  such  as  a  righteous 
pagan  might  have  discovered,  and  breath- 
ed nothing  of  the  spirit  of  Christianity, 
being  as  unjust  toward  God  as  it  repre- 
sented him  to  be  toward  men :  the  God 
of  the  preacher  was  utterly  unlike  the 
Father  of  Jesus.  Urging  his  hearers  to 
flee  from  the  wrath  to  come,  he  drew  such 
a  picture  of  an  angry  Deity  as  in  nothing 
resembled  the  revelation  in  the  Son. 

"Fellow-sinners,"  he  said  in  conclu- 
sion, "  haste  ye  and  flee  from  the  wrath 
to  come.  Now  is  God  waiting  to  be 
gracious,  but  only  so  long  as  his  Son 
holds  back  the  indignation  ready  to  burst 
forth  and  devour  you.  He  sprinkles  its 
flames  with  the  scarlet  wool  and  the  hys- 
sop of  atonement.  He  stands  between 
you  and  justice,  and  pleads  with  his  in- 
censed Father  for  his  rebellious  creatures. 
Well  for  you  that  He  so  stands  and  so 
pleads  !  Yet  even  He  could  not  prevail 
for  ever  against  such  righteous  anger, 
and  it  is  but  for  a  season  He  will  thus 
entreat:  the  day  will  come  when  He 
will  stand  aside  and  let  the  fiery  furnace 
break  forth  and  slay  you.  Then,  with 
howling  and  anguish,  with  weeping  and 
wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth,  ye  shall 
know  that  God  is  a  God  of  justice,  that 
his  wrath  is  one  with  his  omnipotence, 
and  his  hate  everlasting  as  the  fires  of 
hell.  But  do  as  ye  will,  ye  cannot  thwart 
his  decrees,  for  to  whom  He  will  He 
showeth  mercy,  and  whom  He  will  He 
hardeneth." 

Scarcely  had  he  ceased  when  a  loud 
cry,  clear  and  keen,  rang  through  every 
corner  of  the  cave.  Well  might  the 
preacher  start  and  gaze  around  him,  for 
the  cry  was  articulate,  sharply  modeled 
into  the  three  words — "Father  o'  lichts!" 
Some  of  the  men  gave  a  scared  groan, 
and  some  of  the  women  shrieked.  None 
could  tell  whence  the  cry  had  come,  and 
Malcolm  alone  could  guess  who  must 
have  uttered  it. 

"Yes,"  said  the  preacher,  recovering 
himself  and  replying  to  the  voice,  "  He 
is  the  Father  of  lights,  but  only  to  them 
that  are  in  Christ  Jesus :  He  is  no  Father, 
but  an   avenging   Deity,  to   them  over 


whom  the  robe  of  his  imputed  righteous- 
ness is  not  cast.  Jesus  Christ  himself 
will  not  be  gracious  for  ever.  Kiss  ye 
the  Son,  lest  even  He  be  angry,  and  ye 
perish  from  the  way  when  his  wrath  is 
kindled  but  a  little." 

"Father  o'  lichts!"  rang  the  cry  again, 
and  louder  than  before. 

To  Malcolm  it  seemed  close  behind 
him,  but  he  had  the  self-possession  not 
to  turn  his  head.  The  preacher  took  no 
further  notice.  MacLeod  stood  up,  and 
having,  in  a  few  simple  remarks,  at- 
tempted to  smooth  some  of  the  asperi- 
ties of  the  youth's  address,  announced 
another  meeting  in  the  evening,  and  dis- 
missed the  assembly  with  prayer. 

Malcolm  went  home  with  his  grand- 
father. He  was  certain  it  was  the  laird's 
voice  he  had  heard,  but  he  would  at- 
tempt no  search  after  his  refuge  that  day, 
for  dread  of  leading  to  its  discovery  by 
others. 

That  evening  most  of  the  boats  of  the 
Seaton  set  out  for  the  fishing-ground  as 
usual,  but  not  many  went  from  Scaur- 
nose.  Blue  Peter  would  go  no  more  of 
a  Sunday,  hence  Malcolm  was  free  for 
the  night,  and  again  with  his  grandfather 
walked  along  the  sands  in  the  evening 
toward  the  cave. 

The  sun  was  going  down  on  the  other 
side  of  the  promontory  before  them,  and 
the  sky  was  gorgeous  in  rose  and  blue, 
in  peach  and  violet,  in  purple  and  green, 
barred  and  fretted,  heaped  and  broken, 
scattered  and  massed — every  color  edged 
and  tinged  and  harmonized  with  a  gloiy 
as  of  gold  molten  with  heat  and  glow- 
ing with  fire.  The  thought  that  his 
grandfather  could  not  see  and  had  never 
seen  such  splendor  made  Malcolm  sad, 
and  very  little  was  spoken  between  them 
as  they  went. 

When  they  arrived  the  service  had  al- 
ready commenced,  but  room  was  made 
for  theni  to  pass,  and  a  scat  was  found 
for  Duncan  where  he  could  hear.  Just 
as  they  entered,  Malcolm  spied,  amongst 
those  who  preferred  the  open  air  at  the 
mouth  of  the  cavern,  a  face  which  he 
was  all  but  certain  was  that  of  one  of 
the  three  men  from  whom  he  had  res- 
cued the  laird. 


MALCOLM. 


127 


MacLeod  was  to  address  them.  He 
took  for  his  text  the  words  of  the  Sa- 
viour, "  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor 
and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest,"  and  founded  upon  them  a  simple, 
gracious  and  all  but  eloquent  discourse, 
ver>'  different  in  tone  and  influence  from 
that  of  the  young  student.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  the  Christ  he  presented 
was  very  far  off,  and  wrapped  in  a  hazy 
nimbus  of  abstraction — that  the  toil  of 
his  revelation  was  forgotten,  the  life  He 
lived  being  only  alluded  to,  and  that  not 
for  the  sake  of  showing  what  He  was, 
and  hence  what  God  is,  but  to  illustrate 
the  conclusions  of  men  concerning  him; 
and  yet  there  was  that  heart  of  reality  in 
the  whole  thing  which  no  moral  vulgarity 
of  theory,  no  injustice  toward  God,  no 
tyranny  of  stupid  logic  over  childlike  in- 
tuitions, could  so  obscure  as  to  render  it 
inoperative.  From  the  form  of  the  Son 
of  Man,  thus  beheld  from  afar,  came  a 
warmth  like  the  warmth  from  the  first 
approach  of  the  far-off  sun  in  spring,  suf- 
ficing to  rouse  the  earth  from  the  sleep 
of  winter  in  which  all  the  time  the  same 
sun  has  been  its  warmth,  and  has  kept 
it  from  sleeping  unto  death. 

MacLeod  was  a  thinker,  aware  of  the 
movements  of  his  own  heart,  and  able  to 
reflect  on  others  the  movements  of  their 
hearts;  hence,  although  in  the  main  he 
treated  the  weariness  and  oppression 
from  which  Jesus  offered  to  set  them  free 
as  arising  from  a  sense  of  guilt  and  the 
fear  of  coming  misery,  he  could  not  help 
alluding  to  more  ordinary  troubles  and 
depicting  other  phases  of  the  heart's  rest- 
lessness with  such  truth  and  sympathy 
that  many  listened  with  a  vague  feeling 
of  exposure  to  a  supernatural  insight. 
The  sermon  soon  began  to  show  its  in- 
fluence, for  a  sense  of  the  need  of  help 
is  so  preselht  to  every  simple  mind  that, 
of  all  messages,  the  offer  of  help  is  of 
easiest  reception  :  some  of  the  women 
were  sobbing,  and  the  silent  tears  were 
flowing  down  the  faces  of  others ;  while 
of  the  men  many  were  looking  grave 
and  thoughtful,  and  kept  their  eyes  fixed 
on  the  speaker.  At  length,  toward  the 
close,  MacLeod  judged  it  needful  to  give 
a  word  of  warning. 


"But,  my  friends,"  he  said — and  his 
voice  grew  low  and  solemn — "I  dare  not 
make  an  end  without  reminding  you  that 
if  you  stop  your  ears  against  the  gracious 
call  a  day  will  come  when  not  even  the 
merits  of  the  Son  of  God  will  avail  you, 
but  the  wrath  of  the — " 

''Father  o'  lichts  f  once  more  burst 
ringing  out,  like  the  sudden  cry  of  a 
trumpet  in  the  night. 

MacLeod  took  no  notice  of  it,  but 
brought  his  sermon  at  once  to  a  close, 
and  specified  the  night  of  the  following 
Saturday  for  the  next  meeting.  They 
sung  a  psalm,  and  after  a  slow,  solemn, 
thoughtful  prayer  the  congregation  dis- 
persed. 

But  Malcolm,  who,  anxious  because 
of  the  face  he  had  seen  as  he  entered, 
had  been  laying  his  plans,  after  begging 
his  grandfather  in  a  whisper  to  go  home 
without  him,  for  a  reason  he  would  af- 
terward explain,  withdrew  into  a  recess 
whence  he  could  watch  the  cave  with- 
out being  readily  discovered. 

Scarcely  had  the  last  voices  of  the  re- 
treating congregation  died  away  when 
the  same  ill-favored  face  peeped  round 
the  corner  of  the  entrance,  gave  a  quick 
glance  about,  and  the  man  came  in. 
Like  a  snuffing  terrier  he  went  peering 
in  the  dimness  into  every  hollow  and  be- 
hind every  projection,  until  he  suddenly 
caught  sight  of  Malcolm,  probably  by  a 
glimmering  of  his  eyes. 

"  Hillo,  Humpy !"  he  cried  in  a  tone 
of  exultation,  and  sprang  up  the  rough 
ascent  of  a  step  or  two  to  where  he  sat. 

Malcolm  half  rose,  and  met  him  with 
a  well-delivered  blow  between  the  eyes. 
He  fell,  and  lay  for  a  moment  stunned. 
Malcolm  sat  down  again  and  watched 
him.  When  he  came  to  himself  he  crept 
out,  muttering  imprecations,  He  knew 
it  was  not  Humpy  who  dealt  the  blow. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone  Malcolm  in 
his  turn  began  searching.  He  thought 
he  knew  every  hole  and  corner  of  the 
cave,  and  there  was  but  one  where  the 
laird — who,  for  as  near  him  as  he  heard 
his  voice  the  first  time,  certainly  had 
not  formed  one  of  the  visible  congrega- 
tion— might  have  concealed  himself:  if 
that  was  his  covert,  there  he  must  be 


128 


MALCOLM. 


still,  for  he  had  assuredly  not  issued 
from  it. 

Immediately  behind  where  he  sat  in 
the  morning  was  a  projection  of  rock, 
with  a  narrow  cleft  between  it  and  the 
wall  of  the  cavern,  visible  only  from  the 
very  back  of  the  cave,  where  the  roof 
came  down  low.  But  when  he  thought 
of  it  he  saw  that  even  here  he  could  not 
have  been  hidden  in  the  full  light  of  the 
morning  from  the  eyes  of  some  urchins 
who  had  seated  themselves  as  far  back 
as  the  roof  would  allow  them,  and  they 
had  never  looked  as  if  they  saw  any- 
thing more  than  other  people.  Still,  if 
he  was  to  search  at  all,  here  he  must  be- 
gin. The  cleft  had  scarcely  more  width 
than  sufficed  to  admit  his  body,  and  his 
hands  told  him  at  once  that  there  was 
no  laird  there.  Could  there  be  any 
opening  farther  ?  If  there  was,  it  could 
only  be  somewhere  above.  Was  ad- 
vance in  that  direction  possible  ? 

He  felt  about,  and,  finding  two  or 
three  footholds,  began  to  climb  in  the 
dark,  and  had  reached  the  height  of  six 
feet  or  so  when  he  came  to  a  horizontal 
projection,  which  for  a  moment  only 
barred  his  farther  progress.  Having  lit- 
erally surmounted  this  —  that  is,  got  on 
the  top  of  it — he  found  there  a  narrow 
vertical  opening :  was  it  but  a  shallow 
recess,  or  did  it  lead  into  the  heart  of  the 
rock? 

Carefully  feeling  his  way  both  with 
hands  and  feet,  he  advanced  a  step  or 
two,  and  came  to  a  place  where  the  pas- 
sage widened  a  little,  and  then  took  a 
sharp  turn  and  became  so  narrow  that 
it  was  with  difficulty  he  forced  himself 
through.  It  was,  however,  but  one  close 
pinch,  and  he  found  himself,  as  his  feet 
told  him,  at  the  top  of  a  steep  descent. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  hesitating,  for 
prudence  demanded  a  light.  The  sound 
of  the  sea  was  behind  him,  but  all  in 
front  was  still  as  the  darkness  of  the 
grave.  Suddenly  up  from  unknown 
depths  of  gloom  came  the  tones  of  a 
sweet  childish  voice  singing  "The  Lord's 
my  Shepherd." 

Malcolm  waited  until  the  psalm  was 
finished,  and  then  called  out,  "  Mr.  Stew- 
art!  I'm  here  —  Malcolm  MacPhail.     I 


want  to  see  ye.  Tell  him  it's  me, 
Phemy." 

A  brief  pause  followed  :  then  Phemy's 
voice  answered,  "  Come  awa'  doon.  He 
says  ye  s'  be  welcome." 

"  Canna  ye  shaw  a  licht,  than,  for  I 
dinna  ken  a  fit  o'  the  ro'd.?"  said  Mal- 
colm. 

The  next  moment  a  light  appeared  at 
some  little  distance  below,  and  presently 
began  to  ascend,  borne  by  Phemy,  to- 
ward the  place  where  he  stood.  She 
took  hiin  by  the  hand  without  a  word 
and  led  him  down  a  slope,  apparently 
formed  of  material  fallen  from  the  roof, 
to  the  cave  already  described.  The  mo- 
ment he  entered  it  he  marked  the  water 
in  its  side,  the  smooth  floor,  the  walls 
hollowed  into  a  thousand  fantastic  cav- 
ities, and  knew  he  had  come  upon  the 
cave  in  which  his  great-grandfather  had 
found  refuge  so  many  years  before. 
Changes  in  its  mouth  had  rendered  en- 
trance difficult,  and  it  had  slipped  by 
degrees  from  the  knowledge  of  men. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  slope,  by  the  side 
of  the  well,  sat  the  laird.  Phemy  set  the 
little  lantern  she  carried  on  its  edge.  The 
laird  rose  and  shook  hands  with  Mal- 
colm, and  asked  him  to  be  seated. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  they're  efter  ye 
again,  laird,"  said  Malcolm  after  a  little 
ordinary  chat. 

Mr.  Stewart  was  on  his  feet  instantly. 
"I  maun  awa'.  Tak  care  o'  Phemy," 
he  said  hurriedly. 

"Na,  na,  sir,"  said  Malcolm,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  arm;  "there's  nae  sic 
hurry.  As  lang's  I'm  here  ye  may  sit 
still ;  an',  as  far's  I  ken,  nobody's  fun' 
the  w'y  in  but  mysel',  an'  that  was  yei 
ain  wyte  [blame),  laird.  But  ye  hae 
garred  mair  fowk  nor  me  luik,  an'  that's 
the  pity  o'  't." 

"I  tauld  ye,  sir,  ye  sudna  cry  oot," 
said  Phemy. 

"  I  couldna  help  it,"  said  Stewart  apolo- 
getically. 

"Weel,  ye  sudna  ha'  gane  near  them 
again,"  persisted  the  little  woman. 

"Wha  kent  but  they  kcnt  whaur  I  cam 
frae  ?"  also  persisted  the  laird. 

"  Sit  ye  doon,  sir,  an'  lat's  hae  a  word 
aboot  it,"  said  Malcolm  cheerily. 


MALCOLM. 


129 


The  laird  cast  a  doubting  look  at 
Phemy. 

"Ay,  sit  doon,"  said  Phemy. 

Mr.  Stewart  yielded,  but  nervous  starts 
and  sudden  twitches  of  the  muscles  be- 
trayed his  uneasiness  :  it  looked  as  if  his 
body  would  jump  up  and  run  without 
his  mind's  consent. 

"  Hae  ye  ony  w'y  o'  winnin'  oot  o'  this, 
forbye  [besides]  the  mou'  o'  the  cave 
there  ?"  asked  Malcolm. 

"Nane  'at  I  ken  o',"  answered  Phemy. 
"But  there's  heaps  o'  hidy-holes  i'  the 
inside  o'  't." 

"  That's  a'  verra  weel,  but  gien  they 
keepit  the  mou',  an'  took  their  time  till 
't;  they  bude  to  grip  ye." 

"There  may  be,  though,"  resumed 
Phemy.  "It  gangs  back  a  lang  road. 
I  hae  never  been  in  sicht  o'  the  en'  o'  't. 
It  comes  doon  verra  laich  in  some  places, 
and  gangs  up  heich  again  in  ithers,  but 
no  sign  o'  an  en'  till  't." 

"  Is  there  ony  soon'  o'  watter  intill  't  ?" 
asked  Malcolm. 

"  Na,  nane  'at  ever  I  hard.  But  I'll  tell 
ye  what  I  hae  hard  :  I  hae  hard  the  flails 
gaein'  thud,  thud,  abune  my  heid." 

"Hoot  toot,  Phemy!"  said  Malcolm: 
"we're  a  guid  mile  an'  a  half  frae  the 
nearest  ferm-toon,  an'  that,  I  reckon,  '11 
be  the  Hoose-ferm." 

"I  canna  help  that,"  persisted  Phemy. 
"Gien  't  wasna  the  flails,  whiles  ane,  an' 
whiles  twa,  I  dinna  ken  what  it  cud  hae 
been.  Hoo  far  it  was,  I  canna  say,  for 
it's  ill  measurin'  i'  the  dark,  or  wi'  nae- 
thing  but  a  bowat  [latitcrn)  \  yer  han'  ; 
but  gien  ye  ca'd  it  raair,  I  wadna  won'er." 

"  It's  a  michty  howkin  !"  said  Malcolm, 
"but  for  a'  that  it  wadna  baud  ye  frae  the 
grip  o'  thae  scoonrels  :  whaurever  ye  ran 
they  cud  rin  efter  ye." 

"I  think  we  cud  sort  them,"  said 
Phemy.  "There's  ae  place,  a  guid  bit 
farrer  in,  whaur  the  rufe  comes  doon  to 
the  flure,  leavin'  jist  ae  sma'  hole  to  creep 
throu' :  it  wad  be  fine  to  hae  a  gey  muckle 
stane  handy,  jist  to  row  [roll)  athort  it, 
an'  gar't  luik  as  gien  't  was  the  en'  o' 
a'thing.  But  the  hole's  sae  sma'  at  the 
laird  hasillgettin'  hispuir  back  throu'  't." 

"I  couldna  help  won'erin'  hoo  he  wan 
throu'  at  the  tap  there,"  said  Malcolm. 
9 


At  this  the  laird  laughed  almost  mer- 
rily, and  rising  took  Malcolm  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  to  the  spot,  where  he 
made  him  feel  a  rough  groove  in  the 
wall  of  the  rocky  strait :  into  this  hollow 
he  laid  his  hump,  and  so  slid  sideways 
through. 

Malcolm  squeezed  himself  through 
after  him,  saying,  "Noo  ye're  oot,  laird, 
hadna  ye  better  come  wi'  me  hame  to 
Miss  Horn's,  whaur  ye  wad  be  as  safe's 
gien  ye  war  in  h'aven  itsel'  ?" 

"Na,  I  canna  gang  to  Miss  Horn's," 
he  replied. 

"What  for  no,  laird  ?" 

Pulling  Malcolm  down  toward  him,  the 
laird  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  'Cause  she's 
fleyt  at  my  back." 

A  moment  or  two  passed  ere  Malcolm 
could  think  of  a  reply  both  true  and  fit- 
ting. When  at  length  he  spoke  again 
there  was  no  answer,  and  he  knew  that 
he  was  alone. 

He  left  the  cave  and  set  out  for  the 
Seaton ;  but,  unable  to  feel  at  peace 
about  his  friends,  resolved  on  the  way  to 
return  after  seeing  his  grandfather,  and 
spend  the  night  in  the  outer  cave. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

WANDERING     STARS. 

He  had  not  been  gone  many  minutes 
when  the  laird  passed  once  more  through 
the  strait,  and  stood  a  moment  waiting 
for  Phemy :  she  had  persuaded  him  to 
go  home  to  her  father's  for  the  night. 
But  the  next  instant  he  darted  back,  with 
trembling  hands  caught  hold  of  Phemy, 
who  was  following  him  with  the  lantern, 
and  stammered  in  her  ear,  "There's 
somebody  there !  I  dinna  ken  whaur 
they  come  frae." 

Phemy  went  to  the  front  of  the  pas- 
sage and  listened,  but  could  hear  noth- 
ing, and  returned.  "Bide  ye  whaur  ye 
are,  laird,"  she  said:  "I'll  gang  doon, 
an'  gien  I  hear  or  see  naething  I'll  come 
back  for  ye." 

With  careful  descent,  placing  her  feet 
on  the  well-known  points  unerringly,  she 
reached  the  bottom,  and  peeped  into  the 
outer  cave.     The  place  was  quite  dark. 


I30 


MALCOLM. 


Through  its  jaws  the  sea  glimmered  faint 
in  the  low  light  that  skirted  the  northern 
horizon,  and  the  slow  pulse  of  the  tide 
upon  the  rocks  was  the  sole  sound  to  be 
heard.  No :  another  in  the  cave  close 
beside  her — one  small  solitary  noise,  as 
of  shingle  yielding  under  the  pressure 
of  a  standing  foot.  She  held  her  breath 
and  listened,  her  heart  beating  so  loud 
that  she  feared  it  would  deafen  her  to 
what  would  come  next.  A  good  many 
minutes,  half  an  hour  it  seemed  to  her, 
passed,  during  which  she  heard  nothing 
more ;  but  as  she  peeped  out  for  the 
twentieth  time  a  figure  glided  into  the 
field  of  vision  bounded  by  the  cave's 
mouth.  It  was  that  of  a  dumpy  woman. 
She  entered  the  cave,  tumbled  over  one 
of  the  forms,  and  gave  a  loud  cry,  coupled 
with  an  imprecation.  "The  deevil  roast 
them  'at  laid  me  sic  a  trap!"  she  said. 
"I  hae  broken  the  shins  the  auld  markis 
laudit." 

"  Hold  your  wicked  tongue!"  hissed  a 
voice  in  return,  almost  in  Phemy's  very 
ear. 

"  Ow !  ye  're  there,  are  ye,  mem  ?"  re- 
joined the  other,  in  a  voice  that  held,  in- 
ternal communication  with  her  wounded 
shins.     "Coupit  ye  the  crans  like  me?" 

The  question,  Englished,  was,  "  Did 
you  fall  heels  over  head  like  me  ?"  but 
was  capable  of  a  metaphorical  interpre- 
tation as  well. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  I  say,  woman ! 
Who  knows  but  some  of  the  saints  may 
be  at  their  prayers  within  hearing?" 

"Na,  na,  mem,  there's  nae  risk  o'  that. 
This  is  no  ane  o'  yer  creepy  caves  whaur 
'Otters  an'  wuUcats  hae  their  habitations: 
it's  a  muckle  open-mou'd  place,  like 
them  'at  prays  intill  'it — as  toom  an' 
clear-sidit  as  a  tongueless  bell.  But 
what  for  ye  wad  hae  's  come  here  to  oor 
cracks  [conversation]  I  canna  faddom. 
A  body  wad  think  ye  had  an  ill  thoucht 
i'  yer  held — eh,  mem  ?" 

The  suggestion  was  followed  by  a  low, 
almost  sneering  laugh.  As  she  spoke 
the  sounds  of  her  voice  and  step  had 
been  advancing  with  cautious  intermit- 
teat  approach. 

"I  hae  ye  noo,"  she  said,  as  she  seated 
herself  at  length  beside  the  other.    "The 


gowk,  Geordie  Bray!"  she  went  on — "to 
tak  it  intill's  oogly  heid  'at  the  cratur 
wad  be  hurklin'  here !  It's  no  the  place 
for  ane  'at  has  to  hide  's  heid  for  verra 
shame  o'  slippin'  afif  the  likes  o'  himsel' 
upo'  sic  a  braw  mither.  Could  he  get 
nae  ither  door  to  win  in  at,  haith?" 

"Woman,  you'll  drive  me  mad!"  said 
the  other. 

"Weel,  hinney,"  returned  the  former, 
suddenly  changing  her  tone,  "  I'm  mair 
an'  mair  convenced  'at  yon's  the  verra 
laad  for  yer  purpose.  For  ae  thing,  ye 
see,  nobody  kens  whaur  he  cam  frae,  as 
the  laird,  bonny  laad !  wad  say,  aft'  no- 
body can  contradick  a  word — the  auld 
man  less  than  onybody,  for  I  can  tell 
him  what  he  kens  to  be  trowth.  Only  I 
winna  muv  till  /  ken  whaur  he  comes 
frae." 

"Wouldn't  you  prefer  not  knowing  for 
certain  ?  You  could  swear  with  the  bet- 
ter grace." 

"Deil  a  bit!  It  maitters  na  to  me 
whilk  side  o'  my  teeth  I  chow  wi'.  But 
I  winna  sweir  till  I  ken  the  trowth,  'at 
I  may  baud  afif  o'  't.  He's  the  man, 
though,  gien  we  can  get  a  grip  o'  'm. 
He  luiks  the  richt  thing,  ye  see,  mem. 
He  has  a  glisk  [s/ighf  look)  o'  the  mar- 
kis tu — divna  ye  think,  mem  ?" 

"  Insolent  wretch !" 

"Caw  canny,  mem.  A'  thing  maun  be 
considered.  It  wad  but  gar  the  thing 
luik  the  mair  likly.  Fowk  gangs  the 
len'th  o'  sayin'  'at  Humpy  himsel'  's  no 
the  sin  [son)  o'  the  auld  laird,  honest 
man  !" 

"  It's  a  wicked  lie  !"  burst  with  indig- 
nation from  the  other. 

"  There  may  be  waur  things  nor  a  bit 
lee.  Ony  gait,  ae  thing's  easy  priven  : 
ye  lay  verra  dowie  [poorly]  for  a  month 
or  sax  ooks  ance  upon  a  time  at  Lossie 
Hoose,  an'  that  was  a  feow  years — we 
needna  speir  hoc  mony — eftcr  ye  was 
lichtened  o'  the  tither.  Whan  they  hear 
that  at  that  time  ye  gae  birth  till  a  lad- 
bairn,  the  whilk  was  stown  awa',  an' 
never  hard  tell  o'  till  noo,  '  It  may  weel 
be,'  fowk'U  say:  'them  'at  has  drunk 
wad  drink  again.'  It  wad  affoord  riz- 
zons,  ye  see,  an'  guid  anes,  for  the  bairn 
bein'  putten  oot  o'  sicht,  and  wad  mak 


MALCOLM. 


the  haill  story  mair  nor  likly  i'  the  jeedg- 
ment  o'  a'  'at  hard  it." 

"  You  scandalous  woman  !  That  would 
be  to  confess  to  all  the  world  that  he  was 
not  the  son  of  my  late  husband." 

"They  say  that  o'  him  'at  is,  an'  hoo 
muckle  the  waur  are  ye  ?  Lat  them  say 
'at  they  like,  sae  lang  's  we  can  shaw  'at 
he  cam  o'  your  body,  an'  was  born  i' 
wedlock  ?  Ye  hae  yer  lan's  ance  mair, 
for  ye  hae  a  sin  'at  can  guide  them  ;  and 
ye  can  guide  him.  He's  a  bonny  lad — 
bonny  eneuch  to  be  yer  leddyship's,  and 
his  lordship's — an'  sae,  as  I  was  remark- 
in',  i'  the  jeedgment  o'  ill-thouchtit  fowk, 
the  mair  likly  to  be  heir  to  auld  Stewart 
o'  Kirkbyres." 

She  laughed  huskily. 

"But  I  maun  hae  a  scart  o'  yer  pen, 
mem,  afore  I  wag  tongue  about  it,"  she 
went  on.  "  I  ken  brawly  hoo  to  set  it 
gauin' :  I  sanna  be  the  first  to  ring  the 
bell.  Na,  na ;  Is'  set  Miss  Horn's  Jean 
jawin',  an'  it  '11  be  a'  ower  the  toon  in  a 
jiffy — at  first  in  a  kin'  o'  a  sough  'at 
naebody  'ill  unnerstan',  but  it  '11  grow 
looder  an'  plainer.  At  the  lang  last  it 
'ill  come  to  yer  leddyship's  hearin' ;  an' 
3yne  ye  hae  me  taen  up  an'  questioned 
afore  a  justice  o'  the  peace,  that  there 
may  be  no  luik  o'  any  compack  atween 
the  twa  o'  's.  But,  as  I  said  afore,  I'll 
no  muv  till  I  ken  a'  aboot  the  lad  first, 
an'  syne  get  a  scart  o'  your  pen,  mem." 

"You  must  be  the  devil  himself!"  said 
the  other,  in  a  tone  that  was  not  of  dis- 
pleasure. 

"I  hae  been  tellt  that  afore,  an'  wi' 
less  rizzon,"  was  the  reply,  given  also  in 
a  tone  that  was  not  of  displeasure. 

"  But  what  if  we  should  be  found  out  ?" 

"Ye  can  lay  't  a'  upo'  me." 

"And  what  will  you  do  with  it?" 

"Tak  it  wi'  me,"  was  the  answer,  ac- 
companied by  another  husky  laugh. 

"Where  to  ?" 

"Speir  nae  questons  an'  ye'U  be  tellt 
nae  lees.  Ony  gait,  I  s'  lea'  nae  track 
ahin'  me.  An'  for  that  same  sake,  I 
maun  hae  my  pairt  i'  my  han'  the  meen- 
ute  the  thing's  been  sworn  till.  Gien  ye 
fail  me,  ye'U  sune  see  me  get  mair  licht 
upo'  the  subjec',  an'  confess  till  a  great 
mistak.     By  the  Michty,  but  I'll  sweir 


the  verra  contrar  the  neist  time  I'm  hed 
up !  Ay,  an'  ilka  body  'ill  believe  me. 
An'  whaur'll  ye  be  than,  my  leddy  ? 
For  though  /  micht  mistak,  ye  cudna. 
Faith !  they'll  hae  ye  ta'en  up  for  per- 
jury." 

"You're  a  dangerous  accomplice,"  said 
the  lady. 

"  I'm  a  tule  ye  maun  tak  by  the  han'le 
or  ye'U  rue  the  edge,"  returned  the  other 
quietly. 

"As  soon,  then,  as  I  get  a  hold  of  that 
misbegotten  elf — " 

"  Mean  ye  the  yoong  laird  or  the 
yoong  markis,  mem  ?" 

"You  forget,  Mrs.  Catanach,  that  you 
are  speaking  to  a  lady." 

"Ye  maun  hae  been  unco  like  ane  ae 
nicht,  ony  gait,  mem.  But  I'm  dune  wi' 
my  jokin'." 

"As  soon,  I  say,  as  I  get  my  poor  boy 
into  proper  hands,  I  shall  be  ready  to 
take  the  next  step." 

"What  for  sud  ye  pit  it  aff  till  than? 
He  canna  du  muckle  ae  w'y  or  ither." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  His  uncle,  Sir  Joseph, 
prides  himself  on  being  an  honest  man, 
and  if  some  busybody  were  to  tell  him 
that  poor  Stephen,  as  I  am  told  people 
are  saying,  was  no  worse  than  harsh 
treatment  had  made  him — for  you  know 
his  father  could  not  bear  the  sight  of 
him  to  the  day  of  his  death — he  would 
be  the  more  determined  to  assert  his 
guardianship  and  keep  things  out  of  my 
hands.  But  if  I  once  had  the  poor  fel- 
low in  an  asylum,  or  in  my  own  keep- 
ing, you  see — " 

"  Weel,  mem,  gien  I  be  potty,  ye're 
panny,"  exclaimed  the  midwife  with  her 
gelatinous  laugh.  "Losh,  mem!"  she 
burst  out  after  a  moment's  pause,  "gien 
you  an'  me  was  to  fa'  oot,  there  wad  be 
a  stramash  !     He !  he  !  he  I" 

They  rose  and  left  the  cave  together, 
talking  as  they  went,  and  Phemy,  trem- 
bling all  over,  rejoined  the  laird. 

She  could  understand  little  of  what 
she  had  heard,  and  yet,  enabled  by  her 
affection,  retained  in  her  mind  a  good 
deal  of  it.  After  events  brought  more 
of  it  to  her  recollection,  and  what  I  have 
here  given  is  an  attempted  restoration 
of   the    broken    mosaic.      She    rightly 


132 


MALCOLM. 


judged  it  better  to  repeat  nothing  of 
what  she  had  overheard  to  the  laird,  to 
whom  it  would  only  redouble  terror;  and 
when  he  questioned  her  in  his  own  way 
concerning  it,  she  had  little  difficulty,  so 
entirely  did  he  trust  her,  in  satisfying 
him  with  a  very  small  amount  of  infor- 
mation. When  they  reached  her  home 
she  told  all  she  could  to  her  father ; 
whose  opinion  it  was  that  the  best,  in- 
deed the  only,  thing  they  could  do  was 
to  keep,  if  possible,  a  yet  more  vigilant 
guard  over  the  laird  and  his  liberty. 

Soon  after  they  were  gone  Malcolm 
returned,  and,  little  thinking  that  there 
was  no  one  left  to  guard,  chose  a  shelter- 
ed spot  in  the  cave,  carried  thither  a 
quantity  of  dry  sand,  and  lay  down  to 
sleep,  covered  with  his  tarpaulin  coat. 
He  found  it  something  chilly,  however, 
and  did  not  rest  so  well  but  that  he  woke 
with  the  first  break  of  day. 

The  morning,  as  it  drew  slowly  on, 
was  a  strange  contrast,  in  its  gray  and 
saffron,  to  the  gorgeous  sunset  of  the 
night  before.  The  sea  crept  up  on  the 
land  as  if  it  were  weary  and  did  not 
care  much  to  flow  any  more.  Not  a 
breath  of  wind  was  in  motion,  and  yet 
the  air  even  on  the  shore  seemed  full 
of  the  presence  of  decaying  leaves  and 
damp  earth.  He  sat  down  in  the  mouth 
of  the  cave,  and  looked  out  on  the  still, 
half-waking  world  of  ocean  and  sky  be- 
fore him — a  leaden  ocean  and  a  dull, 
misty  sky ;  and  as  he  gazed  a  sadness 
came  stealing  over  him,  and  a  sense  of 
the  endlessness  of  labor — labor  ever  re- 
turning on  itself  and  making  no  progress. 
The  mad  laird  was  always  lamenting  his 
ignorance  of  his  origin  :  Malcolm  thought 
he  knew  whence  he  came  ;  and  yet  what 
was  the  much  good  of  life  ?  Where  was 
the  end  to  it  all  ?  People  so  seldom  got 
what  they  desired !  To  be  sure,  his  life 
was  a  happy  one,  or  had  been,  but  there 
was  the  poor  laird.  Why  should  he  be 
happier  than  the  laird  ?    Why  should  the 


laird  have  a  hump  and  he  have  none  ? 
If  all  the  world  were  happy  but  one 
man,  that  one's  misery  would  be  as  a 
cairn  on  which  the  countless  multitudes 
of  the  blessed  must  heap  the  stones  of 
endless  questions  and  enduring  perplex- 
ities. 

It  is  one  thing  to  know  from  whom  we 
come,  and  another  to  know  Him  from 
whom  we  come. 

Then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Lady 
Florimel.  All  the  splendors  of  existence 
radiated  from  her,  but  to  the  glory  he 
could  never  draw  nearer ;  the  celestial 
fires  of  the  rainbow  fountain  of  her  life 
could  never  warm  him  ;  she  cared  about 
nothing  he  cared  about ;  if  they  had  a 
common  humanity  they  could  not  share 
it ;  to  her  he  was  hardly  human.  If  he 
were  to  unfold  before  her  the  deepest 
layers  of  his  thought,  she  would  look  at 
them  curiously,  as  she  might  watch  the 
doings  of  an  ant  or  a  spider.  Had  he 
no  right  to  look  for  more  ?  He  did  not 
know,  and  sat  brooding  with  bowed 
head. 

Unseen  from  where  he  sat,  the  sun 
drew  nearer  the  horizon  ;  the  light  grew  ; 
the  tide  began  to  ripple  up  more  diligent- 
ly ;  a  glimmer  of  dawn  touched  even  the 
brown  rock  in  the  farthest  end  of  the 
cave. 

Where  there  was  light  there  was  work, 
and  where  there  was  work  for  any  one 
there  was  at  least  justification  of  his  ex- 
istence. That  work  must  be  done  if  it 
should  return  and  return  in  a  never- 
broken  circle.  Its  theory  could  wait. 
For  indeed  the  only  hope  of  finding  the 
theory  of  all  theories,  the  Divine  idea, 
lay  in  the  going  on  of  things. 

In  the  mean  time,  while  God  took  care 
of  the  sparrows  by  himself,  he  allowed 
Malcolm  a  share  in  the  protection  of  a 
human  heart  capable  of  the  keenest  suf- 
ferintr — that  of  the  mad  laird. 


IP^I^T     -VII. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   skipper's   CHAMBER. 

ONE  day  toward  the  close  of  the  fish- 
ing-season the  marquis  called  upon 
Duncan,  and  was  received  with  a  cor- 
dial, unembarrassed  welcome. 

"  I  want  you,  Mr.  MacPhail,"  said  his 
lordship,  "  to  come  and  live  in  that  little 
cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  burn,  which 
one  of  the  under-gamekeepers,  they  tell 
me,  used  to  occupy.  I'll  have  it  put  in 
order  for  you,  and  you  shall  live  rent- 
free  as  my  piper." 

"I  thank  your  lortship's  grace,"  said 
Duncan,  "  and  she  would  pe  proud  of  ta 
honor,  put  it  '11  pe  too  far  away  from  ta 
shore  for  her  poy's  fishing." 

"  I  have  a  design  upon  him  too,"  re- 
turned the  marquis.  "They're  building 
a  little  yacht  for  me — a  pleasure-boat, 
you  understand  —  at  Aberdeen,  and  I 
want  Malcolm  to  be  skipper.  But  he  is 
such  a  useful  fellow,  and  so  thoroughly 
to  be  depended  upon,  that  I  should  pre- 
fer his  having  a  room  in  the  house.  I 
should  like  to  know  he  was  within  call 
any  moment  I  might  want  him." 

Duncan  did  not  clutch  at  the  proposal. 
He  was  silent  so  long  that  the  marquis 
spoke  again. 

"  You  do  not  quite  seem  to  like  the 
plan,  Mr.  MacPhail,"  he  said. 

"  If  aall  wass  here  as  it  used  to  wass 
in  ta  Highlants,  my  lort,"  said  Duncan, 
"when  every  clansman  wass  son  or 
prother  or  father  to  his  chief,  tat  would 
pe  tifferent ;  put  my  poy  must  not  co  and 
eat  with  serfants  who  haf  nothing  put 
teir  waches  to  make  tem  love  and  opey 
your  lortship.  If  her  poy  serfs  another 
man,  it  must  pe  pecause  he  loves  him, 
and  looks  upon  him  as  his  chief,  who 
will  shake  hands  with  him  and  take  ta 
father's  care  of  him  ;  and  her  poy  must 
tie  for  him  when  ta  time  comes." 

Even  a  feudal  lord  cannot  be  expected 
to  have  sympathized  with   such  grand 


patriarchal  ideas ;  they  were  much  too 
hke  those  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ; 
and  feudalism  itself  had  by  this  time 
crumbled  away — not  indeed  into  month- 
ly, but  into  half-yearly,  wages.  The 
marquis,  notwithstanding,  was  touched 
by  the  old  man's  words,  matter-of-fact 
as  his  reply  must  sound  after  them. 

"  I  would  make  any  arrangements  you 
or  he  might  wish,"  he  said.  "  He  should 
take  his  meals  with  Mrs.  Courthope,  ^ 
have  a  bedroom  to  himself,  and  be  re- 
quired only  to  look  after  the  yacht,  and 
now  and  then  do  some  bit  of  business  I 
couldn't  trust  any  one  else  with." 

The  highlander's  pride  was  nearly 
satisfied. 

"  So,"  he  said,  "  it  '11  be  his  own  hench- 
man my  lort  will  pe  making  of  her  poy  ?" 

"  Something  like  that.  We'll  see  how 
it  goes.  If  he  doesn't  like  it,  he  can  drop 
it.  It's  more  that  I  want  to  have  him 
about  me  than  anything  else.  I  want  to 
do  something  for  him  when  I  have  a 
chance.     I  like  him." 

"  My  lort  will  pe  toing  ta  laad  a  creat 
honor,"  said  Duncan.  "  Put,"  he  added, 
with  a  sigh,  "she'll  be  lonely,  her  nain- 
sel." 

"  He  can  come  and  see  you  twenty 
times  a  day,  and  stop  all  night  when 
you  particularly  want  him.  We'll  see 
about  some  respectable  woman  to  look 
after  the  house  for  you." 

"  She'll  haf  7io  womans  to  look  after 
her,"  said  Duncan  fiercely. 

"Oh,  very  well.  Of  course  not,  if  you 
don't  wish  it,"  returned  the  marquis, 
laughing. 

But  Duncan  did  not  even  smile  in  re- 
turn. He  sat  thoughtful  and  silent  for 
a  moment,  then  said,  "And  what'U  pe- 
come  of  her  lamps  and  her  shop  ?" 

"You  shall  have  all  the  lamps  and 
candlesticks  in  the  house  to  attend  to 
and  take  charge  of,"  said  the  marquis, 
who  had  heard  of  the  old  man's  whim 

133 


134 


MALCOLM. 


from  Lady  Florimel ;  "and  for  the  shop, 
you  won't  want  that  when  you  're  piper 
to  the  marquis  of  Lossie." 

He  did  not  venture  to  allude  to  wages 
more  definitely. 

"Well,  she  '11  pe  talking  to  her  poy 
apout  it,"  said  Duncan  ;  and  the  marquis 
saw  that  he  had  better  press  the  matter 
no  further  for  the  time. 

To  Malcolm  the  proposal  was  full  of 
attraction.  True,  Lord  Lossie  had  once 
and  again  spoken  so  as  to  offend  him, 
but  the  confidence  he  had  shown  in  him 
had  gone  far  to  atone  for  that.  And  to 
be  near  Lady  Florimel ! — to  have  to  wait 
on  her  in  the  yacht,  and  sometimes  in 
the  house ! — to  be  allowed  books  from 
the  libraiy  perhaps  ! — to  have  a  nice 
room  and  those  lovely  grounds  all  about 
him  !     It  was  tempting  ! 

The  old  man  also,  the  more  he  reflect- 
ed, liked  the  idea  the  more.  The  only 
thing  he  murmured  at  was  being  parted 
from  his  grandson  at  night.  In  vain 
Malcolm  reminded  him  that  during  the 
fishing-season  he  had  to  spend  most 
nights  alone  :  Duncan  answered  that  he 
had  but  to  go  to  the  door  and  look  out 
to  sea,  and  there  was  nothing  between 
him  and  his  boy,  but  now  he  could  not 
tell  how  many  stone  walls  might  be 
standing  up  to  divide  them.  He  was 
quite  willing  to  make  the  trial,  however, 
and  see  if  he  could  bear  it.  So  Malcolm 
went  to  speak  to  the  marquis. 

He  did  not  altogether  trust  the  mar- 
quis, but  he  had  always  taken  a  delight 
in  doing  anything  for  anybody — a  de- 
light rooted  in  a  natural  tendency  to 
ministration,  unusually  strong,  and  spe- 
cially developed  by  the  instructions  of 
Alexander  Graham,  conjoined  with  the 
necessities  of  his  blind  grandfather; 
while  there  was  an  alluring  something, 
it  must  be  confessed,  in  the  marquis's 
high  position,  which  let  no  one  set  down 
to  Malcolm's  discredit :  whether  the  sub- 
ordination of  class  shall  go  to  the  develop- 
ment of  reverence  or  of  servility  depends 
mainly  on  the  individual  nature  subor- 
dinated. Calvinism  itself  has  produced 
as  loving  children  as  abject  slaves,  with 
a  good  many  between  partaking  of  the 
character  of  both   kinds.     Still,  as   he 


pondered  over  the  matter  on  his  way,  he 
shrunk  a  good  deal  from  placing  himself 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  another :  it  threat- 
ened to  interfere  with  that  sense  of  per- 
sonal freedom  which  is  yet  dearer  per- 
haps to  the  poor  than  to  the  rich.  But 
he  argued  with  himself  that  he  had 
found  no  infringement  of  it  under  Blue 
Peter,  and  that  if  the  marquis  were  real- 
ly as  friendly  as  he  professed  to  be,  it 
was  not  likely  to  turn  out  otherwise  with 
him. 

Lady  Florimel  anticipated  pleasure  in 
Malcolm's  probable  consent  to  her  fath- 
er's plan,  but  certainly  he  would  not  have 
been  greatly  uplifted  by  a  knowledge  of 
the  sort  of  pleasure  she  expected.  For 
some  time  the  girl  had  been  suffering 
from  too  much  liberty.  Perhaps  there 
is  no  life  more  filled  with  a  sense  of  op- 
pression and  lack  of  freedom  than  that 
of  those  under  no  external  control,  in 
whom  Duty  has  not  yet  gathered  suf- 
ficient strength  to  assume  the  reins  of 
government  and  subject  them  to  the 
highest  law.  Their  condition  is  like  that 
of  a  creature  under  an  exhausted  re- 
ceiver— oppressed  from  within  outward 
for  want  of  the  counteracting  external 
weight.  It  was  amusement  she  hoped 
for  from  Malcolm's  becoming  in  a  sense 
one  of  the  family  at  the  House,  to  which 
she  believed  her  knowledge  of  the  ex- 
tremely bare  outlines  of  his  history  would 
largely  contribute. 

He  was  shown  at  once  into  the  pres- 
ence of  his  lordship,  whom  he  found  at 
breakfast  with  his  daughter. 

"Well,  MacPhail,"  said  the  marquis, 
"have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  be  my 
skipper?" 

"Willin'ly,  my  lord,"  answered  Mal- 
colm. 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  manage  a  sail- 
boat?" 

"I  wad  need,  my  lord." 

"Shall  you  want  any  help  ?" 

"That  dcpen's  upo'  saiveral  things — 
her  ain  size,  the  wuU  o'  the  win',  an* 
whether  or  no  yer  lordship  or  my  leddy 
can  tak  the  tiller." 

"We  can't  settle  about  that,  then,  till 
she  comes.  I  hear  she  '11  soon  be  on 
her  way  now.     But  I  cannot  have  you 


MALCOLM. 


135 


dressed  like  a  farmer,"  said  his  lordship, 
looking  sharply  at  the  Sunday  clothes 
which  Malcolm  had  donned  for  the  visit. 

"What  was  I  to  do,  my  lord  ?"  return- 
ed Malcolm  apologetically.  "The  only 
ither  claes  I  hae  are  verra  fishy,  an' 
neither  yersel'  nor  my  leddy  cud  bide 
them  i'  the  room  aside  ye." 

"Certainly  not,"  responded  the  mar- 
quis, as  in  a  leisurely  manner  he  devour- 
ed his  omelette  :  "  I  was  thinking  of  your 
future  position  as  skipper  of  my  boat. 
What  would  you  say  to  a  kilt,  now  ?" 

"  Na,  na,  my  lord,"  rejoined  Malcolm  : 
"a  kilt's  no  seafarin'  claes.  A  kilt  wad- 
na  du  ava',  my  lord." 

"You  cannot  surely  object  to  the  dress 
of  your  own  people,"  said  the  marquis. 

"  The  kilt 's  weel  eneuch  upon  a  hill- 
side," said  Malcolm,  "  I  dinna  doobt ; 
but  faith !  seafarin',  my  lord,  ye  wad 
want  the  trews  as  weel." 

"  Well,  go  to  the  best  tailor  in  the  town 
and  order  a  naval  suit — white  ducks  and 
a  blue  jacket :  two  suits  you'll  want." 

"We  s'  gar  ae  shuit  sair  's  [satisfy  us) 
to  begin  wi',  my  lord.  I'll  jist  gang  to 
Jamie  Sangster,  wha  maks  a'  my  claes 
—  no  'at  their  mony  —  an'  get  hijn  to 
mizzur  me.  He  '11  mak  them  weel 
eneuch  for  me.  Ye  're  aye  sure  o'  the 
worth  o'  yer  siller  frae  him." 

"I  tell  you  to  go  to  the  best  tailor  in 
the  town  and  order  two  suits." 

"  Na,  na,  my  lord,  there's  no  need :  I 
canna  affoord  it,  forbye.  We  're  no  a' 
made  o'  siller  like  yer  lordship." 

"You  booby  !  do  you  suppose  I  would 
tell  you  to  order  clothes  I  did  not  mean 
to  pay  for  ?' ' 

Lady  Florimel  found  her  expectation 
of  amusement  not  likely  to  be  disap- 
pointed. 

"  Hoots,  my  lord  !"  returned  Malcolm, 
"that  wad  never  du.  I  maiin  pey  for 
my  ain  claes.  1  wad  be  in  a  constant 
terror  o'  blaudin'  [spoiling)  o'  them  gien 
I  didna,  an'  that  wad  be  eneuch  to  mak 
a  body  meeserable.  It  wad  be  a'  the 
same,  forbye,  oot  an'  oot,  as  weirin'  a 
leevry !" 

"Well,  well,'  please  your  pride  and  be 
damned  to  you  !"  said  the  marquis. 

"Yes,  let  him  please  his  pride  and  be 


damned  to  him !"  assented  Lady  Flori- 
mel with  perfect  gravity. 

Malcolm  started  and  stared.  Lady 
Florimel  kept  an  absolute  composure. 
The  marquis  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

Malcolm  stood  bewildered  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  I'm  thinkin'  I'm  gaein'  daft 
[dL-lirious)V'  he  said  at  length,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  head.  "  It's  time  I  gaed. 
Guid-mornin',  my  lord." 

He  turned  and  left  the  room,  followed 
by  a  fresh  peal  from  his  lordship,  min- 
gling with  which  his  ear  plainly  detect- 
ed the  silvery  veins  of  Lady  Florimel's 
equally  merry  laughter. 

When  he  came  to  himself  and  was 
able  to  reflect,  he  saw  there  must  have 
been  some  joke  involved:  the  behavior 
of  both  indicated  as  much ;  and  with 
this  conclusion  he  heartened  his  dismay. 

The  next  morning  Duncan  called  on 
Mrs.  Partan  and  begged  her  acceptance 
of  his  stock  in  trade,  as,  having  been  his 
lordship's  piper  for  some  time,  he  was 
now  at  length  about  to  occupy  his  proper 
quarters  within  the  policies.  Mrs.  Find- 
lay  acquiesced,  with  an  air  better  suited 
to  the  granting  of  slow  leave  to  labor- 
some  petition  than  the  accepting  of  such 
a  generous  gift ;  but  she  made  some 
amends  by  graciously  expressing  a  hope 
that  Duncan  would  not  forget  his  old 
friends  now  that  he  was  going  amongst 
lords  and  ladies,  to  which  Duncan  re- 
turned as  courteous  answer  as  if  he  had 
been  addressing  Lady  Florimel  herself. 

Before  the  end  of  the  week  his  few 
household  goods  were  borne  in  a  cart 
through  the  sea -gate  dragonized  by 
Bykes,  to  whom  Malcolm  dropped  a 
humorous  "Weel,  Johnny!"  as  he  pass- 
ed, receiving  a  nondescript  kind  of  grin, 
in  return.  The  rest  of  the  forenoon  was 
spent  in  getting  the  place  in  order,  and 
in  the  afternoon,  arrayed  in  his  new  gar- 
ments, Malcolm  reported  himself  at  the 
House.  Admitted  to  his  lordship's  pres- 
ence, he  had  a  question  to  ask  and  a  re- 
quest to  prefer. 

"  Hae  ye  dune  onything,  my  lord," 
he  said,  "aboot  Mistress  Catanach  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Anent  yon  cat-prowl  aboot  the  hoose, 
my  lord." 


136 


MALCOLM. 


"No.  You  haven't  discovered  any- 
thing more,  have  you  ?" 

"Na,  my  lord  :  I  haena  had  a  chance. 
But  ye  may  be  sure  she  had  no  guid  de- 
sign in  't." 

"I  don't  suspect  her  of  any." 

"Weel,  my  lord,  hae  ye  ony  objection 
to  lat  me  sleep  up  yonner?" 

"None  at  all  —  only  you'd  better  see 
what  Mrs.  Courthope  has  to  say  to  it. 
Perhaps  you  won't  be  so  ready  after  you 
hear  her  story." 

"  But  I  hae  your  lordship's  leave  to  tak 
ony  room  I  like  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Go  to  Mrs.  Courthope  and 
tell  her  I  wish  you  to  choose  your  own 
quarters." 

Having  straightway  delivered  his  lord- 
ship's message,  Mrs.  Courthope,  wonder- 
ing a  little  thereat,  proceeded  to  show 
him  those  portions  of  the  house  set  apart 
for  the  servants.  He  followed  her  from 
floor  to  floor — last  to  the  upper  regions, 
and  through  all  the  confused  rambling 
roofs  of  the  old  pile,  now  descending  a 
sudden  steep-yawning  stair,  now  ascend- 
ing another  where  none  could  have  been 
supposed  to  exist,  oppressed  all  the  time 
with  a  sense  of  the  multitudinous  and  in- 
tricate such  as  he  had  never  before  ex- 
perienced, and  such  as  perhaps  only  the 
works  of  man  can  produce,  the  intricacy 
and  variety  of  those  of  Nature  being  ever 
veiled  in  the  grand  simplicity  which 
springs  from  primal  unity  of  purpose. 

I  find  no  part  of  an  ancient  house  so 
full  of  interest  as  the  garret  region.  It 
has  all  the  mystery  of  the  dungeon  cel- 
lars, with  a  far  more  striking  variety  of 
form  and  a  bewildering  curiosity  of  adap- 
tation, the  peculiarities  of  roof- shapes 
and  the  consequent  complexities  of  their 
relations  and  junctures  being  so  much 
greater  than  those  of  foundation-plans. 
Then  the  sense  of  lofty  loneliness  in  the 
•  deeps  of  air,  and  at  the  same  time  of 
[proximity  to  things  aerial  —  doves  and 
'martins,  vanes  and  gilded  balls  and 
Uightning- conductors,  the  waves  of  the 
sea  of  wind  breaking  on  the  chimneys 
for  rocks,  and  the  crashing  roll  of  the 
thunder — are  in  harmony  with  the  high- 
est spiritual  instincts ;  while  the  clouds 
and  the   stars  look,  if  not   nearer,  yet 


more  germane,  and  the  moon  gazes 
down  on  the  lonely  dweller  in  uplifted 
places  as  if  she  had  secrets  with  such. 
The  cellars  are  the  metaphysics,  the  gar- 
rets the  poetry  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Courthope  was  more  than  kind, 
for  she  was  greatly  pleased  at  having 
Malcolm  for  an  inmate.  She  led  him 
from  room  to  room,  suggesting  now  and 
then  a  choice,  and  listening  amusedly  to 
his  remarks  of  liking  or  disliking  and 
his  marvel  at  strangeness  or  extent.  At 
last  he  found  himself  following  her  along 
the  passage  in  which  was  the  mysterious 
door,  but  she  never  stayed  her  step,  or 
seemed  to  intend  showing  one  of  the 
many  rooms  opening  upon  it. 

"Sic  a  bee's-byke  o'  rooms!"  said 
Malcolm,  making  a  halt.  "Wha  sleeps 
here?" 

"  Nobody  has  slept  in  one  of  these 
rooms  for  I  dare  not  say  how  many 
years,"  replied  Mrs.  Courthope,  without 
stopping;  and  as  she  spoke  she  passed 
the  fearful  door. 

"  I  wad  like  to  see  intill  this  room,"  said 
Malcolm. 

"That  door  is  never  opened,"  answered 
Mrs.  Courthope,  who  had  now  reached 
the  end  of  the  passage,  and  turned,  ling- 
ering as  in  act  while  she  spoke  to  move 
on. 

"And  what  for  that?"  asked  Malcolm, 
continuing  to  stand  before  it. 

"I  would  rather  not  answer  you  just 
here.  Come  along.  This  is  not  a  part 
of  the  house  where  you  would  like  to  be, 
I  am  sure." 

"  Hoo  ken  ye  that,  mem  ?  An'  hoo 
can  I  say  mysel'  afore  ye  hae  shawn  me 
what  the  room  's  like  ?  It  may  be  the 
verra  place  to  tak  my  fancy.  Jist  open 
the  door,  mem,  gien  ye  please,  an'  lat's 
hae  a  keek  intill  't." 

"I  daren't  open  it.  It's  never  opened, 
I  tell  you.  It's  against  the  rules  of  the 
house.  Come  to  my  room,  and  I'll  tell 
you  the  story  about  it." 

"Weel,  ye'll  lat  me  see  intill  the  neist 
— winna  ye 
openin'  hit- 
approaching  the  door  next  to  tlic  one  in 
dispute. 

"Certainly  not;   but  I'm  pretty  sure, 


?     There's   nae   law   agane 
-is  there?"  said    Malcolm, 


MALCOLM. 


137 


once  you've  heard  the  story  I  have  to 
tell,  you  won't  choose  to  sleep  in  this 
part  of  the  house." 

"  Lat's  luik,  ony  gait." 

So  saying,  Malcolm  took  upon  him- 
self to  try  the  handle  of  the  door.  It 
was  not  locked :  he  peeped  in,  then  en- 
tered. It  was  a  small  room,  low-ceiled, 
with  a  deep  dormer  window  in  the  high 
pediment  of  a  roof,  and  a  turret-recess 
on  each  side  of  the  window.  It  seemed 
very  light  after  the  passage,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  burn.  It  was  comfort- 
ably furnished,  and  the  curtains  of  its 
tent-bed  were  chequered  in  squares  of 
blue  and  white. 

"This  is  the  verra  place  for  me,  mem," 
said  Malcolm,  reissuing;  "that  is,"  he 
added,  "gien  ye  dinna  think  it's  ower 
gran'  for  the  likes  o'  me  'at  's  no  been 
used  to  onything  half  sae  guid." 

"You're  quite  welcome  to  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Courthope,  all  but  confident  he  would 
not  care  to  occupy  it  after  hearing  the 
tale  of  Lord  Gernon. 

She  had  not  moved  from  the  end  of 
the  passage  while  Malcolm  was  in  the 
room  :  somewhat  hurriedly  she  now  led 
the  way  to  her  own.  It  seemed  half  a 
mile  off  to  the  wondering  Malcolm  as  he 
followed  her  down  winding  stairs,  along 
endless  passages  and  round  innumera- 
ble corners.  Arrived  at  last,  she  made 
him  sit  down,  and  gave  him  a  glass  of 
home-made  wine  to  drink,  while  she  told 
him  the  story  much  as  she  had  already 
told  it  to  the  marquis,  adding  a  hope  to 
the  effect  that  if  ever  the  marquis  should 
express  a  wish  to  pry  into  the  secret  of 
the  chamber,  Malcolm  would  not  encour- 
age him  in  a  fancy  the  indulgence  of 
which  was  certainly  useless,  and  might 
be  dangerous. 

"Me/"  exclaimed  Malcolm  with  sur- 
prise. "As  gien  he  wad  heed  a  word  / 
said !" 

"Very  little  sometimes  will  turn  a  man 
either  in  one  direction  or  the  other,"  said 
Mrs.  Courthope. 

"But  surely,  mem,  ye  dinna  believe  in 
sic  fule  auld-warld  stories  as  that  ?  It's 
weel  eneuch  for  a  tale,  but  to  think  o'  a 
body  turnin'  ae  fit  oot  o'  's  gait  for  't, 
blecks  [notipiiisses]  me." 


"I  don't  say  I  believe  it,"  returned 
Mrs.  Courthope,  a  little  pettishly,  "but 
there's  no  good  in  mere  foolhardiness." 

"Ye  dinna  surely  think,  mem,  'at  God 
wad  lat  onything  depen'  upo'  whether  a 
man  opent  a  door  in  's  ain  hoose  or  no  ? 
It's  agane  a'  rizzon,"  persisted  Malcolm. 

"There  might  be  reasons  we  couldn't 
understand,"  she  replied.  "To  do  what 
we  are  warned  against  from  any  quarter, 
without  good  reason,  must  be  foolhardy 
at  best." 

"Weel,  memx,  I  maun  hae  the  room 
neist  the  auld  warlock's,  ony  gait,  for  in 
that  I'm  gaun  to  sleep,  an'  in  nae  ither 
in  a'  this  muckle  hoose." 

Mrs.  Courthope  rose,  full  of  uneasi- 
ness, and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"  I'm  takin'  upo'  me  naething  ayont 
his  lordship's  ain  word,"  urged  Malcolm. 

"If  you're  to  go  by  the  very  word," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Courthope,  stopping  and 
looking  him  full  in  the  face,  "you  might 
insist  on  sleeping  in  Lord  Gernon's 
chamber  itself." 

"Weel,  an'  sae  I  micht,"  returned 
Malcolm. 

The  hinted  possibility  of  having  to 
change  bad  for  so  much  worse  appear- 
ed to  quench  further  objection. 

"  I  must  get  it  ready  myself,  then," 
she  said  resignedly,  "  for  the  maids  won't 
even  go  up  that  stair.  And  as  to  going 
into  any  of  those  rooms — " 

"'Deed  no,  mem  !  ye  sanna  du  that," 
cried  Malcolm.  "  Sayna  a  word  to  ane 
o'  them.  I  s'  wadger  I'm  as  guid's  the 
auld  warlock  himsel'  at  makin'  a  bed. 
Jist  gie  me  the  sheets  an'  the  blankets, 
an'  I'll  du't  as  trim  's  ony  lass  i'  the 
hoose." 

"  But  the  bed  will  want  airing,"  ob- 
jected the  housekeeper. 

"  By  a'  accoonts  that's  the  last  thing 
it's  likly  to  want,  lyin'  neist  door  to  yon 
chaumer.  But  I  hae  sleepit  mony  's  the 
time  er'  noo  upo'  the  tap  o'  a  boatload 
o'  herrin',  an'  gien  that  never  did  me 
ony  ill,  it's  no  likly  a  guid  bed  '11  kill 
me  gien  it  sud  be  a  wee  mochy  [father 
full  of  moths')." 

Mrs.  Courthope  yielded  and  gave  him 
all  that  was  needful,  and  before  night 


138 


MALCOLM. 


Malcolm  had  made  his  new  quarters 
quite  comfortable.  He  did  not  retire  to 
them,  however,  until  he  had  seen  his 
grandfather  laid  down  to  sleep  in  his 
lonely  cottage. 

About  noon  the  next  day  the  old  man 
made  his  appearance  in  the  kitchen. 
How  he  had  found  his  way  to  it  neither 
he  nor  any  one  else  could  tell.  There 
happened  to  be  no  one  there  when  he 
entered,  and  the  cook  when  she  return- 
ed stood  for  a  moment  in  the  door, 
watching  him  as  he  felt  flitting  about 
with  huge  bony  hands  whose  touch  was 
yet  light  as  the  poise  of  a  butterfly.  Not 
knowing  the  old  man,  she  fancied  at  first 
he  was  feeling  after  something  in  the 
shape  of  food,  but  presently  his  hands 
fell  upon  a  brass  candlestick.  He  clutch- 
ed it  and  commenced  fingering  it  all 
over.  Alas !  it  was  clean,  and  with  a 
look  of  disappointment  he  replaced  it. 
Wondering  yet  more  what  his  quest 
could  be,  she  watched  on.  The  next  in- 
stant he  had  laid  hold  of  a  silver  candle- 
stick not  yet  passed  through  the  hands 
of  the  scullery-maid,  and  for  a  moment 
she  fancied  him  a  thief,  for  he  had  re- 
jected the  brass  and  now  took  the  silver ; 
but  he  went  no  farther  with  it  than  the 
fireplace,  where  he  sat  down  on  the  end 
of  the  large  fender,  and,  having  spread 
his  pocket-handkerchief  over  his  kilted 
knees,  drew  a  similar  rag  from  some- 
where and  commenced  cleaning  it. 

By  this  time  one  of  the  maids  who 
knew  him  had  jojned  the  cook,  and  also 
stood  watching  him  with  amusement. 
But  when  she  saw  the  old  knife  drawn 
from  his  stocking,  and  about  to  be  ap- 
plied to  the  nozzle,  to  free  it  from  ad- 
hering wax,  it  seemed  more  than  time 
to  break  the  silence.  "  Eh !  that's  a 
siller  can'lestick,  Maister  MacPhail,"  she 
cried,  "an'  ye  maunna  tak  a  k-nife  till 
't.  or  ye'll  scrat  it  a'  dreidfu'." 

An  angry  flush  glowed  in  the  withered 
cheeks  of  the  piper  as,  without  the  least 
start  at  the  suddenness  of  her  interfer- 
ence, he  turned  his  face  in  the  direction 
of  the  speaker :  "  You  take  old  Tuncan's 
tinkers  for  persons  of  no  etchucation, 
vnem.  As  if  tcy  couldn't  know  ta  silfcr 
from  ta  prass !     If  tey  wass  so  stupid. 


her  nose  would  pe  telling  tem  so.  Efen 
old  Tuncan's  knife  '11  pe  knowing  petter 
than  to  scratch  ta  silfer,  or  ta  prass  either : 
old  Tuncan's  knife  would  pe  scratching 
nothing  petter  than  ta  skin  of  a  Caw- 
mill." 

Now  the  candlestick  had  no  business 
in  the  kitchen,  and  if  it  were  scratched 
the  butler  would  be  indignant ;  but  the 
girl  was  a  Campbell,  and  Duncan's  words 
so  frightened  her  that  she  did  not  dare 
interfere.  She  soon  saw,  however,  that 
the  piper  had  not  over-vaunted  his  skill : 
the  Skene  left  not  a  mark  upon  the  metal. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  had  melted  away 
the  wax  he  could  not  otherwise  reach, 
and  had  rubbed  the  candlestick  perfectly 
bright,  leaving  behind  l^m  no  trace  ex- 
cept an  unpleasant  odor  of  train-oil  from 
the  rag.  From  that  hour  he  was  cleaner 
of  lamps  and  candlesticks,  as  well  as 
blower  of  bagpipes,  to  the  House  of  Los- 
sie,  and  had  everything  provided  neces- 
sary to  the  performance  of  his  duties 
with  comfort  and  success. 

Before  many  weeks  were  over  he  had 
proved  the  possession  of  such  a  talent  for 
arrangement  and  general  management, 
at  least  in  everything  connected  with  il- 
lumination, that  the  entire  charge  of  the 
lighting  of  the  house  was  left  in  his 
hands,  even  to  that  of  its  stores  of  wax 
and  tallow  and  oil ;  and  great  was  the 
pleasure  he  derived,  not  only  from  the 
trust  reposed  in  him,  but  from  other 
more  occult  sources  connected  with  the 
duties  of  his  office. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
THE   LIIJRARY. 

Malcolm's  first  night  was  rather  trou- 
bled, not  primarily  from  the  fact  that  but 
a  thin  partition  separated  him  from  the 
wizard's  chamber,  but  from  the  deadncss 
of  the  silence  around  him  ;  for  he  had 
been  all  his  life  accustomed  to  the  near 
noise  of  the  sea,  and  its  absence  had 
upon  him  the  rousing  effect  of  an  unac- 
customed sound.  He  kept  hearij^  the 
dead  silence — was  constantly  tlropping 
as  it  were  into  its  gulf;  and  it  was  no 
wonder  that   a  succession   of  sleepless 


MALCOLM. 


139 


fits,  strung  together  rather  than  divided 
by  as  many  dozes  little  better  than  start- 
led rousings,  should  at  length  have  so 
shaken  his  mental  frame  as  to  lay  it  open 
to  the  assaults  of  nightly  terrors,  the  po- 
sition itself  being  sufficient  to  seduce  his 
imagination  and  carry  it  over  to  the  in- 
terests of  his  enemy. 

But  Malcolm  had  early  learned  that  a 
man's  will  must,  like  a  true  monarch, 
rule  down  every  rebellious  movement  of 
its  subjects,  and  he  was  far  from  yielding 
to  such  inroads  as  now  assailed  him  ;  still, 
it  was  long  before  he  fell  asleep,  and 
then  only  to  dream  without  quite  losing 
consciousness  of  his  peculiar  surround- 
ings. He  seemed  to  know  that  he  lay 
in  his  own  bed,  and  yet  to  be  somehow 
aware  of  the  presence  of  a  pale  woman 
in  a  white  garment,  who  sat  on  the  side 
of  the  bed  in  the  next  room,  still  and 
silent,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  her 
eyes  on  the  ground.  He  thought  he  had 
seen  her  before,  and  knew,  notwithstand- 
ing her  silence,  that  she  was  lamenting 
over  a  child  she  had  lost.  He  knew  also 
where  her  child  was — that  it  lay  crying 
in  a  cave  down  by  the  sea-shore — but  he 
could  neither  rise  to  go  to  her  nor  open 
his  mouth  to  call.  The  vision  kept  com- 
ing and  coming,  like  the  same  tune 
played  over  and  over  on  a  barrel-organ, 
and  when  he  woke  seemed  to  fill  all  the 
time  he  had  slept. 

About  ten  o'clock  he  was  summoned 
to  the  marquis's  presence,  and  found 
him  at  breakfast  with  Lady  Florimel. 

"Where  did  you  sleep  last  night.''" 
asked  the  marquis. 

"Neist  door  to  the  auld  warlock,"  an- 
swered Malcolm. 

Lady  Florimel  looked  up  with  a  glance 
of  bright  interest :  her  father  had  just 
been  telling  her  the  story. 

"You  did!"  said  the  marquis.  "Then 
Mrs.  Courthope — did  she  tell  you  the  le- 
gend about  him  ?" 

"Ay  did  she,  my  lord." 

"Well,  how  did  you  sleep?" 

"Middlin'  only." 

"Ho\v  was  that  ?" 

"I  dinna  ken,  'cep  it  was  'at  I  was 
fule  eneuch  to  fin'  the  place  gey  eerie- 
like." 


"Aha!"  said  the  marquis.  "You've 
had  enough  of  it !  You  won't  try  il 
again  !" 

"What's  that  ye  say,  my  lord?"  re- 
joined Malcolm.  "Wad  ye  hae  a  man 
turn  's  back  at  the  first  fleg?  Na,  na, 
my  lord,  that  wad  never  du  !" 

"Oh,  then  you  did  have  a  fright?" 

"Na,  I  canna  say  that,  aither.  Nae- 
thing  waur  came  near  me  nor  a  dream 
'at  plaguit  me  ;  an'  it  wasna  sic  an  ill  ane, 
efter  a'." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  thocht  there  was  a  bonny  leddy  sit- 
tin'  o'  the  bed  i'  the  neist  room,  in  her 
nicht-goon  like,  an'  she  was  greitin'  sair 
in  her  heart,  though  she  never  loot  a  tear 
fa'  doon.  She  was  greitin'  aboot  a  bair- 
nie  she  had  lost,  an'  I  kent  weel  whaur 
the  bairnie  was  —  doon  in  a  cave  upo' 
the  shore,  I  thocht — an'  was  jist  yirnin' 
to  gang  till  her  an'  tell  her,  an'  stop  the 
greitin'  o'  her  hert,  but  I  cudna  muv  han' 
nor  fit,  naither  cud  I  open  my  mou'  to 
cry  till  her.  An'  I  gaed  dreamin'  on  at 
the  same  thing,  ower  and  ower  a'  the 
time  I  was  asleep.  But  there  was  nae- 
thing  sae  frichtsome  aboot  that,  my  lord." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  his  lordship. 

"Only  it  garred  me  greit  tu,  my  lord, 
'cause  I  cudna  win  at  her  to  help  her." 

His  lordship  laughed,  but  oddly,  and 
changed  the  subject. 

"  There's  no  word  of  that  boat  yet," 
he  said.     "I  must  write  again." 

"May  I  show  Malcolm  the  library, 
papa?"  asked  Lady  Florimel. 

"I  wad  fain  see  the  buiks,"  adjected 
Malcolm. 

"You  don't  know  what  a  scholar  he 
is,  papa." 

"Little  eneuch  o'  that,"  said  Malcolm. 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,"  said  the  marquis,  an- 
swering his  daughter.  "  But  he  must 
keep  the  skipper  from  my  books  and  the 
scholar  from  my  boat." 

"Ye  mean  a  scholar wha wad  skip  yer 
buiks,  my  lord.  Haith !  sic  wad  be  a 
skipper  wha  wad  ill  scull  yer  boat,"  said 
Malcolm,  with  a  laugh  at  the  poor  at- 
tempt. 

"Bravo!"  said  the  marquis,  who  cer- 
tainly was  not  over-critical.  "  Can  you 
write  a  good  hand?" 


140 


MALCOLM. 


"  No  ill,  my  lord." 

"  So  much  the  better.  I  see  you'll  be 
worth  your  wages." 

"That  depen's  on  the  wages,"  return- 
ed Malcolm. 

"And  that  reminds  me   you've   said 
nothing  about  them  yet." 
"  Naither  has  yer  lordship." 
"Well,  what  are  they  to  be  ?" 
"Whatever  ye  think  proper,  my  lord. 
Only   dinna    gar   me   gang   to   Maister 
Crathie  for  them." 

The  marquis  had  sent  away  the  man 
who  was  waiting  when  Malcolm  entered, 
and  during  this  conversation  Malcolm 
had  of  his  own  accord  been  doing  his 
best  to  supply  his  place.  The  meal  end- 
ed, Lady  Florimel  desired  him  to  wait  a 
moment  in  the  hall. 

"He  's  so  amusing,  papa!"  she  said. 
"  I  want  to  see  him  stare  at  the  books. 
He  thinks  the  schoolmaster's  hundred 
volumes  a  grand  library.  He's  such  a 
goose  !  It's  the  greatest  fun  in  the  world 
watching  him." 

"No  such  goose,"  said  the  marquis, 
but  he  recognized  himself  in  his  child, 
and  laughed. 

Florimel  ran  off  merrily,  as  bent  on  a 
joke,  and  joined  Malcolm. 

"  Now,  I'm  going  to  show  you  the  li- 
brary," she  said. 

"Thank  ye,  my  leddy  :  that  ■zvi'//  be 
gran',"  replied  Malcolm. 

He  followed  her  up  two  staircases  and 
through  more  than  one  long  narrow  pas- 
sage :  all  the  ducts  of  the  house  were 
long  and  narrow,  causing  him  a  sense 
of  imprisonment,  vanishing  ever  into 
freedom  at  the  opening  of  some  door 
into  a  great  room.  But  never  had  he 
had  a  dream  of  such  a  room  as  that  at 
which  they  now  arrived.  He  started 
with  a  sort  of  marveling  dismay  when 
she  threw  open  the  door  of  the  library 
and  he  beheld  ten  thousand  volumes  at 
a  glance,  all  in  solemn  stillness.  It  was 
like  a  sepulchre  of  kings.  But  his  as- 
tonishment took  a  strange  form  of  ex- 
pression, the  thought  in  which  was  be- 
yond the  reach  of  his  mistress. 

"  Kb,  my  leddy,"  he  cried,  after  staring 
for  a  while  in  breathless  bewilderment, 
"  it's  jist  hkc  a  byke  o'  frozen  bees  !     Eh  ! 


gien  they  war  a'  to  come  to  life  an'  stick 
their  stangs  o'  trowth  intill  a  body,  the 
waukin'  up  wad  be  awfu' !  It  jist  gars 
my  heid  gang  roon',"  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 

"It  is  a  fine  thing,"  said  the  girl,  "to 
have  such  a  library." 

"'Deed  is  't,  my  leddy!  It's  ane  o' 
the  preevileeges  o'  rank,"  said  Malcolm. 
"It  taks  a  faimily  that  bauds  on  thiou' 
centeries  in  a  hoose  whaur  things  gether 
to  mak  sic  an  unaccoontable  getherin' 
o'  buiks  as  that.  It's  a  gran'  sicht — 
worth  livin'  to  see." 

"  Suppose  you  were  to  be  a  rich  man 
some  day,"  sa»id  Florimel  in  the  con- 
descending tone  she  generally  adopted 
when  addressing  him,  "  it  would  be  one 
of  the  first  things  you  would  set  about — 
wouldn't  it  ? — to  get  such  a  library  to- 
gether." 

"  Na,  my  leddy :  I  wad  hae  mair  wut, 
A  leebrary  canna  be  made  a'  at  ance, 
ony  mair  nor  a  hoose  or  a  nation  or  a 
muckle  tree :  i/iey  maun  a'  tak  time  to 
grow,  an'  sae  maun  a  leebrary.  I  wad- 
na  even  ken  what  buiks  to  gang  an'  speir 
for.  I  daur  say,  gien  I  war  to  try,  I  cud- 
na  at  a  moment's  notice  tell  ye  the 
names  o'  mair  nor  a  twa  score  o'  buiks 
at  the  ootside.  Fowk  maun  mak  ac- 
quaintance amo'  buiks  as  they  wad  amo' 
leevin'  fowk." 

"  But  you  could  get  somebody  who 
knew  more  about  them  than  yourself  to 
buy  for  you." 

"  I  wad  as  sune  think  o'  gettin'  some- 
body to  ait  my  denner  for  me." 

"No,  that's  not  fair,"  said  Florimel. 
"  It  would  only  be  like  getting  somebody 
who  knew  more  of  cookery  than  your- 
self to  order  your  dinner  for  you." 

"Ye're  richt,  my  leddy,  but  still  I  wad 
as  sune  thing  o'  the  tane  's  the  tither. 
What  wad  come  o'  the  like  o'  me,  div 
ye  think,  broucht  up  upo'  mcal-brose 
an'  herrin',  gien  ye  was  to  set  me  doon 
to  sic  a  denner  as  my  lord  yer  father  wad 
ait  ilka  day  an'  think  naething  o'  ?  But 
gien  some  fowk  hed  the  buyin'  o'  my 
buiks,  I'm  thinkin'  the  first  thing  I  wad 
hae  to  du  wad  be  to  fling  the  half  o* 
them  into  the  burn." 

"What  good  would  that  do  ?" 


MALCOLM. 


141 


"Clear  avva'  the  rubbitch.  Ye  see, 
my  leddy,  it's  no  buiks,  but  what  buiks. 
Eh !  there  maun  be  mony  ane  o'  the 
richt  sort  here,  though.  I  wonner  gien 
Mr.  Graham  ever  saw  them.  He  wad 
surely  hae  made  mention  o'  them  i'  my 
hearin'." 

"  What  would  be  the  first  thing  you 
would  do,  then,  Malcolm,  if  you  hap- 
pened to  turn  out  a  great  man  after  all .?" 
said  Florimel,  seating  herself  in  a  huge 
library-chair,  whence,  having  arranged 
her  skirt,  she  looked  up  in  the  young 
fisherman's  face. 

"I  doobt  I  wad  hae  to  sit  doon  an' 
turn  ower  the  change  a  feow  times  afore 
I  kent  aither  mysel'  or  what  wad  become 
me,"  he  said. 

"That's  not  answering  my  question," 
retorted  Florimel. 

"Weel,  the  second  thing  I  wad  do," 
said  Malcolm  thoughtfully,  and  pausing 
a  moment,  "wad  be  to  get  Mr.  Graham 
to  gang  wi'  me  to  Ebberdeen  an'  carry 
me  throu'  the  classes  there.  Of  coorse, 
I  wadna  try  for  prizes :  that  wadna  be 
fair  to  them  'at  cudna  affoord  a  tutor  at 
their  lodgin's." 

"But  it's  the  first  thing  you  would 
do  that  I  want  to  know,"  persisted  the 
girl. 

"  I  tellt  ye  I  wad  sit  doon  an'  think 
aboot  it." 

"  I  don't  count  that  doing  anything." 

"'Deed,  my  leddy,  thinkin's  the  hard- 
est wark  1  ken." 

"Well,  what  is  it  you  would  think 
about  first  ?"  said  Florimel,  not  to  be  di- 
verted from  her  course. 

"Ow !  the  third  thing  I  wad  du — " 

"I  want  to  know  the  first  thing  you 
would  think  about." 

"  I  canna  say  yet  what  the  third  thing 
wad  be.  Fower  years  at  the  college  wad 
gie  m.e  time  to  reflec'  upon  a  hantle  o' 
things." 

"  I  insist  on  knowing  the  first  thing 
you  would  think  about  doing,"  cried 
Florimel  with  mock  imperiousness,  but 
real  tyranny. 

"Weel,  my  leddy,  gien  ye  wuU  hae  *t — 
But  hoo  great  a  man  wad  ye  be  makin' 
o'  me  ?" 

"  Oh  !  let  me  see  :  yes,  yes,  the  heir  to 


an  earldom.  That's  liberal  enough,  is  it 
not  ?" 

"That's  as  muckle  as  say  I  wad  come 
to  be  a  yerl  some  day,  sae  be  I  didna 
dee  upo'  the  ro'd  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  what  it  means." 

"An'  a  yerl's  neist  door  till  a  markis, 
isna  he  ?" 

"Yes,  he's  in  the  next  lower  rank." 

"  Lower  ? — ay  !  No  that  muckle,  may- 
be ?" 

"No,"  said  Lady  Florimel  consequen- 
tially: "the  difference  is  not  so  great  as 
to  prevent  their  meeting  on  a  level  of 
courtesy." 

"  I  dinna  freely  ken  what  that  means, 
but  gien  't  be  yer  leddyship's  wuU  to 
mak  a  yerl  o'  me,  I'm  no  to  raise  ony' 
objections." 

He  uttered  it  definitively,  and  stood 
silent. 

"Well  ?"  said  the  girl. 

"What's  yer  wull,  my  leddy?"  return- 
ed Malcolm,  as  if  roused  from  a  reverie. 

"Where's  your  answer?" 

"  I  said  I  wad  be  a  yerl  to  please  yer 
leddyship.  I  wad  be  a  flunky  for  the 
same  rizzon,  gien  't  was  to  wait  upo' 
yersel'  an'  nae  ither." 

"I  ask  you,"  said  Florimel,  more  im- 
periously than  ever,  "what  is  the  first 
thing  you  would  do  if  you  found  your- 
self no  longer  a  fisherman,  but  the  son 
of  an  earl  ?" 

"  But  it  maun  be  that  I  was  a  fisher- 
man— to  the  en'  o'  a'  creation,  my  leddy." 

"You  refuse  to  answer  my  question  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  my  leddy,  gien  ye  wull 
hae  an  answer." 

"I  wz7/have  an  answer." 

"Gien  ye  wull  hae  't,  than —     But — " 

"No  buts,  but  an  answer." 

"Weel — it's  yer  ain  wyte,  my  leddy — 
I  wad  jist  gang  doon  upo'  my  k-nees, 
whaur  I  stude  afore  ye,  and  tell  ye  a 
heap  o'  things  'at  maybe  by  that  time  ye 
wad  ken  weel  eneuch  a'ready." 

"What  would  you  tell  me?" 

"  I  wad  tell  ye  'at  yer  een  war  like  the 
verra  leme  o'  the  levin  [brightness  of  the 
iightfting)  itsel' ;  yer  cheek  like  a  white 
rose  i'  the  licht  frae  a  reid  ane ;  yer  hair 
jist  the  saft  lattin'  gang  o'  His  ban's 
whan  the  Maker  cud  du  nae  mair ;  yer 


142 


MALCOLM. 


mou'  jist  fashioned  to  drive  fowk  daft 
'at  daurna  come  nearer  nor  luik  at  it ; 
an'  for  yer  shape,  it  was  like  naething  in 
Natur'  but  itsel'.  Ye  wad  hae  't,  my 
leddy,"  he  added  apologetically ;  and 
well  he  might,  for  Lady  Florimel's  cheek 
had  flushed  and  her  eye  had  been  dart- 
ing fire  long  before  he  got  to  the  end  of 
his  Celtic  outpouring.  Whether  she  was 
really  angry  or  not,  she  had  no  difficulty 
in  making  Malcolm  believe  she  was. 
She  rose  from  her  chair,  though  not  until 
he  had  ended,  swept  halfway  to  the  door, 
then  turned  upon  him  with  a  flash. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  said,  her  breed 
well  obeying  the  call  of  the  game. 

"  I'm  verra  sorry,  my  leddy,"  faltered 
Malcolm,  trying  to  steady  himself  against 
a  strange  trembling  that  had  laid  hold 
upon  him,  "but  you  maun  alloo  it  was 
a'  yer  ain  wyte." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  say  /encouraged  you 
to  talk  such  stuff  to  me  ?" 

"Ye  did  gar  me,  my  leddy." 

Florimel  turned  and  undulated  from 
the  room,  leaving  the  poor  fellow  like  a 
statue  in  the  middle  of  it,  with  the  books 
all  turning  their  backs  upon  him. 

"Noo,"  he  said  to  himself,  "she's  aff 
to  tell  her  father,  and  there'll  be  a  bonny 
bane  to  pyke  atween  him  an'  me.  But 
haith !  I'll  jist  tell  him  the  trowth  o'  't, 
an'  syne  he  can  mak  a  kirk  an'  a  mill 
o'  't,  gien  he  likes." 

With  this  resolution  he  stood  his 
ground,  every  moment  expecting  the 
wrathful  father  to  make  his  appearance 
and  at  the  least  order  him  out  of  the 
house.  But  minute  passed  after  minute 
and  no  wrathful  father  came.  He  grew 
calmer  by  degrees,  and  at  length  began 
to  peep  at  the  titles  of  the  books. 

When  the  great  bell  rang  for  lunch  he 
was  embalmed  rather  than  buried  in  one 
of  Milton's  prose  volumes,  standing  be- 
fore the  shelf  on  which  he  had  found  it, 
the  very  incarnation  of  study. 

My  reader  may  well  judge  that  Mal- 
colm could  not  have  been  very  far  gone 
in  love,  seeing  he  was  thus  able  to  read. 
I  remark  in  return  that  it  was  not  mere- 
ly the  distance  between  him  and  Lady 
Florimel  that  had  hitherto  preserved  his 
being  from  absorption  and  his  will  from 


annihilation,  but  also  the  strength  of  his 
common  sense  and  the  force  of  his  in- 
dividuality. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 
MILTON,  AND   THE    BAY   MARE. 

For  some  days  Malcolm  saw  nothing 
more  of  Lady  Florimel,  but  with  his  grand- 
father's new  dwelling  to  see  to,  with  the 
carpenter's  shop  and  the  blacksmith's 
forge  open  to  him,  and  an  eye  to  detect 
whatever  wanted  setting  right,  the  hours 
did  not  hang  heavy  on  his  hands.  At 
length,  whether  it  was  that  she  thought 
she  had  punished  him  sufficiently  for  an 
offence  for  which  she  was  herself  only 
to  blame,  or  that  she  had  indeed  never 
been  offended  at  all,  and  had  only  been 
keeping  up  her  one-sided  game,  she  be- 
gan again  to  indulge  the  interest  she 
could  not  help  feeling  in  him — an  inter- 
est heightened  by  the  mystery  which  hung 
over  his  birth,  and  by  the  fact  that  she 
knew  that  concerning  him  of  which  he 
was  himself  ignorant.  At  the  same  time, 
as  I  have  already  said,  she  had  no  little 
need  of  an  escape  from  the  ennui  which, 
now  that  the  novelty  of  a  country  life 
had  worn  off,  did  more  than  occasional- 
ly threaten  her.  She  began  again  to  seek 
his  company  under  the  guise  of  his  help, 
half  requesting,  half  commanding  his 
services ;  and  Malcolm  found  himself 
admitted  afresh  to  the  heaven  of  her 
favor.  Young  as  he  was,  he  read  him- 
self a  lesson  suitable  to  the  occasion. 

One  afternoon  the  marquis  sent  fot 
him  to  the  library,  but  when  he  reached 
it  his  master  was  not  yet  there.  He  took 
down  the  volume  of  Milton  in  which  he 
had  been  reading  before,  and  was  soon 
absorbed  in  it  again.  "Faith  !  it's  a  big 
shame !"  he  cried  at  length,  almost  un- 
consciously, and  closed  the  book  with  a 
slam. 

"What  is  a  big  shame  ?"  said  the  voice 
of  the  marquis  close  behind  him. 

Malcolm  started,  and  almost  dropped 
the  volume.  "  I  beg  yer  lordship's  par- 
don," he  said:  "I  didna  hear  ye  come 
in." 

"What  was  the  book  you  were  read- 
ing?" asked  the  marquis. 


MALCOLM. 


143 


"  I  was  jist  readin'  a  bit  o'  Milton's 
Eikonoklastes,"  answered  Malcolm,  " — a 
buik  I  hae  hard  tell  o',  but  never  saw  wi' 
my  ain  een  afore." 

"And  what's  your  quarrel  with  it?" 
asked  his  lordship. 

"  I  canna  mak  oot  what  sud  set  a  great 
man  like  Milton  sae  sair  agane  a  puir 
cratur  like  Cherles." 

"  Read  the  history,  and  you'll  see." 

"Ow!  I  ken  something  aboot  the  pol- 
itics o'  the  time,  an'  I'm  no  sayin'  they 
war  that  wrang  to  tak  the  held  fra  him, 
but  what  for  sud  Milton  hate  the  man 
efter  the  king  was  deid  ?" 

"  Because  he  didn't  think  the  king 
dead  enough,  I  suppose." 

"I  see ;  an'  they  war  settin'  him  up  for 
a  sant.  Still,  he  had  a  richt  to  fair  play. 
Jist  hearken,  my  lord." 

So  saying,  Malcolm  reopened  the  vol- 
ume and  read  the  well-known  passage, 
in  the  first  chapter,  in  which  Milton  cen- 
sures the  king  as  guilty  of  utter  irreve- 
rence because  of  his  adoption  of  the 
prayer  of  Pamela  in  the  Arcadia. 

"Noo,  my  lord,"  he  said,  half  closing 
the  book,  "what  wad  ye  expec'  to  come 
upo',  efter  sic  a  denunciation  as  that,  but 
some  awfu'  haithenish  thing?  Weel,  jist 
hearken  again,  for  here's  the  verra  prayer 
itsel'  in  a  futnote." 

His  lordship  had  thrown  himself  into 
a  chair,  had  crossed  one  leg  over  the 
other,  and  was  now  stroking  its  knee. 

"Noo,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm  again, 
as  he  concluded,  "what  think  ye  o'  the 
jeedgment  passed?" 

"  Really  I  have  no  opinion  to  give 
about  it,"  answered  the  marquis.  "  I'm 
no  theologian.  I  see  no  harm  in  the 
prayer." 

"  Hairm  in  't,  my  lord!  It's  perfetly 
gran' !  It's  sic  a  prayer  as  cudna  weel 
be  aiqualt.  It  vexes  me  to  the  verra  hert 
o'  my  sowl  that  a  michty  man  like  Mil- 
ton— ane  whase  bein'  was  a  crood  o'  her- 
monies — sud  ca'  that  the  prayer  o'  a  hai- 
then  wuman  till  a  haithen  god.  '  O  all- 
seein'  Licht,  an'  eternal  Life  o'  a'  things !' 
Ca's  he  that  a  haithen  god,  or  her  'at 
prayed  sic  a  prayer  a  haithen  wuman?" 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  marquis,  "I 
don't  want  it  all  over  again.    I  see  noth- 


ing to  find  fault  with,  myself,  but  I  don't 
take  much  interest  in  that  sort  of  thing." 

"There  a  wee  bitty  o'  Laitin,  here  i' 
the  note,  'at  I  canna  freely  mak  oot," 
said  Malcolm,  approaching  Lord  Lossie 
with  his  finger  on  the  passage,  never 
doubting  that  the  owner  of  such  a  library 
must  be  able  to  read  Latin  perfectly :  Mr. 
Graham  would  have  put  him  right  at 
once,  and  his  books  would  have  been 
lost  in  one  of  the  window-corners  of  this 
huge  place.  But  his  lordship  waved  him 
back. 

"  I  can't  be  your  tutor,"  he  said,  not 
unkindly.  "  My  Latin  is  far  too  rusty 
for  use." 

The  fact  was  that  his  lordship  had 
never  got  beyond  Maturin  Cordier's  Col- 
loquies. 

"Besides,"  he  went  on,  "I  want  you 
to  do  something  for  me." 

Malcolm  instantly  replaced  the  book 
on  its  shelf,  and  approached  his  master, 
saying,  "Wull  yer  lordship  lat  me  read 
whiles  i'  this  gran'  place  ?  I  mean  whan 
I'm  no  wantit  ither  gaits,  an'  there's  nae- 
body  here." 

"To  be  sure,"  answered  the  marquis, 
"only  the  scholar  mustn't  come  with  the 
skipper's  hands." 

"I  s'  tak  guid  care  o'  that,  my  lord.  I 
wad  as  sune  think  o'  han'lin'  a  book  wi' 
wark-like  ban's  as  I  wad  o'  branderin'  a 
mackerel  ohn  cleaned  it  oot." 

"And  when  we  have  visitors  you'll  be 
careful  not  to  get  in  their  way." 

"  I  wull  that,  my  lord." 

"And  now,"  said  his  lordship  rising, 
"  I  want  you  to  take  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Stew- 
art of  Kirkbyres.     Can  you  ride  ?" 

"I  can  ride  the  bare  back  weel  eneuch 
for  a  fisher-loon,"  said  Malcolm,  "but  I 
never  was  upon  a  saiddle  i'  my  life." 

"The  sooner  you  get  used  to  one  the 
better.  Go  and  tell  Stoat  to  saddle  the 
bay  mare.  Wait  in  the  yard :  I  will 
bring  the  letter  out  to  you  myself." 

"Verra  weel,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm. 
He  knew,  from  sundry  remarks  he  had 
heard  about  the  stables,  that  the  mare  in 
question  was  a  ticklish  one  to  ride,  but 
would  rather  have  his  neck  broken  than 
object. 

Hardly  was  she  ready  when  the  mar- 


144 


MALCOLM. 


quis  appeared,  accompanied  by  Lady 
Florimel,  both  expecting  to  enjoy  a  laugh 
at  Malcolm's  expense.  But  when  the 
mare  was  brought  out,  and  he  was  going 
to  mount  her  where  she  stood,  something 
seemed  to  wake  in  the  marquis's  heart, 
or  conscience,  or  wherever  the  pigmy 
Duty  slept  that  occupied  the  ail-but  sine- 
cure of  his  moral  economy :  he  looked 
at  Malcolm  for  a  moment,  then  at  the 
ears  of  the  mare  hugging  her  neck,  and 
last  at  the  stones  of  the  paved  yard. 

"Lead  her  on  to  the  turf.  Stoat,"  he 
said. 

The  groom  obeyed,  all  followed,  and 
Malcolm  mounted.  The  same  instant 
he  lay  on  his  back  on  the  grass  amidst  a 
general  laugh,  loud  on  the  part  of  mar- 
quis and  lady,  and  subdued  on  that  of 
the  servants.  But  the  next  he  was  on 
his  feet,  and,  the  groom  still  holding  the 
mare,  in  the  saddle  again  :  a  little  anger 
is  a  fine  spur  for  the  side  of  even  an 
honest  intent.  This  time  he  sat  for  half 
a  minute,  and  then  found  himself  once 
more  on  the  grass.  It  was  but  once 
more :  his  mother  earth  had  claimed  him 
again  only  to  complete  his  strength.  A 
third  time  he  mounted,  and  sat.  As 
soon  as  she  perceived  it  would  be  hard 
work  to  unseat  him,  the  mare  was 
quiet. 

"Bravo!"  cried  the  marquis,  giving 
him  the  letter, 

"Will  there  be  an  answer,  my  lord  ?" 

"Wait  and  see." 

"  I  s'  gar  you  pey  for  't,  gien  we  come 
upon  a  broon  rig  atween  this  an'  Kirk- 
byres,"  said  Malcolm,  addressing  the 
mare,  and  rode  away. 

Both  the  marquis  and  Lady  Florimel, 
whose  laughter  had  altogether  ceased  in 
the  interest  of  watching  the  struggle, 
stood  looking  after  him  with  a  pleased 
expression,  which  as  he  vanished  up  the 
glen  changed  to  a  mutual  glance  and 
smile. 

"  He's  got  good  blood  in  him,  however 
he  came  by  it,"  said  the  marquis.  "The 
country  is  more  indebted  to  its  nobility 
than  is  generally  understood." 

Otherwise  indebted  at  least  than  Lady 
Florimel  could  gather  from  her  father's 
remark. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 
KIRKBYRES. 

Malcolm  felt  considerably  refreshed 
after  his  tussle  with  the  mare  and  his 
victory  over  her,  and  much  enjoyed  his 
ride  of  ten  miles.  It  was  a  cool  autumn 
afternoon.  A  few  of  the  fields  were 
being  reaped,  one  or  two  were  crowded 
with  stooks,  while  many  crops  of  oats 
yet  waved  and  rustled  in  various  stages 
of  vanishing  green.  On  all  sides  kine 
were  lowing  ;  over  head  rooks  were  caw- 
ing; the  sun  was  nearing  the  west,  and 
in  the  hollows  a  thin  mist  came  steaming 
up.  Malcolm  had  never  in  his  life  been 
so  far  from  the  coast  before  :  his  road 
led  southward  into  the  heart  of  the 
country. 

The  father  of  the  late  proprietor  of 
Kirkbyres  had  married  the  heiress  of 
Gersefell,  an  estate  which  inarched  with 
his  own  and  was  double  its  size,  whence 
the  lairdship  was  sometimes  spoken  of 
by  the  one  name,  sometimes  by  the  other. 
The  combined  properties  thus  inherited 
by  the  late  Mr.  Stewart  were  of  sufficient 
extent  to  justify  him,  although  a  plain 
man,  in  becoming  a  suitor  for  the  hand 
of  the  beautiful  daughter  of  a  needy 
baronet  in  the  neighborhood,  with  the 
already  somewhat  tarnished  condition 
of  whose  reputation,  having  come  into 
little  contact  with  the  world  in  which  she 
moved,  he  was  unacquainted.  Quite  un- 
expectedly she  also,  some  years  after  their 
marriage,  brought  him  a  property  of  con- 
siderable e.\tent — a  fact  which  had  doubt- 
less had  its  share  in  the  birth  and  nour- 
ishment of  her  consuming  desire  to  get 
the  estates  into  her  own  management. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  journey  Mal- 
colm came  upon  a  bare  moorland  waste 
on  the  long  ascent  of  a  low  hill — very 
desolate,  with  not  a  tree  or  house  within 
sight  for  two  miles.  A  ditch,  half  full 
of  dark  water,  bordered  on  each  side  of 
the  road,  which  went  straight  as  a  rod 
through  a  black  peat  moss  lying  cheer- 
less and  dreary  on  all  sides — hardly  less 
so  where  the  sun  gleamed  from  the  sur- 
face of  some  stagnant  pool  filling  a  hole 
whence  peats  had  been  dug,  or  where  a 
patch  of  cotton-grass  waved  white  and 
lonely  in  the  midst  of  the  waste  expanse. 


MALCOLM. 


145 


At  length,  when  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  ridge,  he  saw  the  house  of  Kirkbyres 
below  him,  and,  with  a  small  modern 
lodge  near  by,  a  wooden  gate  showed 
the  entrance  to  its  grounds.  Between  the 
gate  and  the  house  he  passed  through  a 
young  plantation  of  larches  and  other 
firs  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  so  came 
to  an  old  wall  with  an  iron  gate  in  the 
middle  of  it,  within  which  the  old  house, 
a  gaunt,  meagre  building — a  bare  house 
in  fact,  relieved  only  by  four  small  tur- 
rets or  bartizans,  one  at  each  corner — 
lifted  its  gray  walls,  pointed  gables  and 
steep  roof  high  into  the  pale  blue  air. 
He  rode  round  the  outer  wall,  seeking  a 
back  entrance,  and  arrived  at  a  farm- 
yard, where  a  boy  took  his  horse.  Find- 
ing the  kitchen  door  open,  he  entered, 
and  having  delivered  his  letter  to  a  ser- 
vant-girl, sat  down  to  wait  the  possible 
answer. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  returned  and 
requested  him  to  follow  her.  This  was 
more  than  he  had  calculated  upon,  but 
he  obeyed  at  once.  The  girl  led  him 
along  a  dark  passage  and  up  a  wind- 
ing stone  stair,  much  worn,  to  a  room 
richly  furnished,  and  older-fashioned,  he 
thought,  than  any  room  he  had  yet  seen 
in  Lossie  House. 

On  a  settee,  with  her  back  to  a  win- 
dow, sat  Mrs.  Stewart,  a  lady  tall  and 
slender,  with  well-poised,  easy  carriage, 
and  a  motion  that  might  have  suggested 
the  lithe  grace  of  a  leopard.  She  greet- 
ea  him  with  a  bend  of  the  head  and  a 
smile,  which,  even  in  the  twilight  and 
her  own  shadow,  showed  a  gleam  of 
ivory,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  hard  sweet 
voice,  wherein  an  ear  more  experienced 
than  Malcolm's  might  have  detected  an 
accustomed  intent  to  please.  Although 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  so-called  world, 
and  hence  could  recognize  neither  the 
Parisian  air  of  her  dress  nor  the  indica- 
tions of  familiarity  with  fashionable  life 
prominent  enough  in  her  bearing,  he  yet 
could  not  fail  to  be  at  least  aware  of  the 
contrast  between  her  appearance  and 
her  surroundings.  Yet  less  could  the 
far  stronger  contrast  escape  him  between 
the  picture  in  his  own  mind  of  the  mother 
of  the  mad  laird  and  the  woman  before 
10 


him :  he  could  not  by  any  effort  cause 
the  two  to  coalesce. 

"You  have  had  a  long  ride,  Mr.  Mac- 
Phail,"  she  said;  "you  must  be  tired." 

"What  wad  tire  me,  mem?"  returned 
Malcolm.  "It's  a  fine  caller  evenin',  an' 
I  hed  ane  o'  the  marquis's  best  mears  to 
carry  me." 

"You'll  take  a  glass  of  wine,  anyhow," 
said  Mrs.  Stewart.  "Will  you  oblige  me 
by  ringing  the  bell  ?" 

"No,  I  thank  ye,  mem.  The  mear 
wad  be  better  o'  a  mou'fu'  o'  meal  an' 
watter,  but  I  want  naething  mysel'." 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  lady's  face. 
She  rose  and  rang  the  bell,  then  sat  in 
silence  until  it  was  answered. 

"Bring  the  wine  and  cake,"  she  said; 
then  turned  to  Malcolm:  "Your  master 
speaks  very  kindly  of  you.  He  seems  to 
trust  you  thoroughly." 

"I'm  verra  glaid  to  hear  't,  mem,  but 
he  has  never  had  muckle  cause  to  trust 
or  distrust  me  yet." 

"  He  seems  even  to  think  that  /might 
place  equal  confidence  in  you." 

"  I  dinna  ken.  I  wadna  hae  ye  lippen 
to  me  ower  muckle,"  said  Malcolm. 

"You  do  not  mean  to  contradict  the 
good  character  your  master  gives  you  ?" 
said  the  lady,  with  a  smile  and  a  look 
right  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  wadna  hae  ye  lippen  till  me  afore 
ye  had  my  word,"  said  Malcolm. 

"I  may  use  my  own  judgment  about 
that,"  she  replied  with  another  winning 
smile.  "  But  oblige  me  by  taking  a  glass 
of  wine." 

She  rose  and  approached  the  decan- 
ters. 

"'Deed  no,  mem  !  I'm  no  used  till 't,^ 
an'  it  micht  jummle  my  jeedgment," 
said  Malcolm,  who  had  placed  himself 
on  the  defensive  from  the  first,  jealous 
of  his  own  conduct  as  being  the  friend 
of  the  laird. 

At  his  second  refusal  the  cloud  again 
crossed  the  lady's  brow,  but  her  smile 
did  not  vanish.  Pressing  her  hospitality 
no  more,  she  resumed  her  seat. 

"My  lord  tells  me,"  she  said,  folding 
a  pair  of  lovely  hands  on  her  lap,  "that 
you  see  my  poor  unhappy  boy  some- 
times— " 


146 


MALCOLM. 


"No  sae  dooms  [absolutely)  unhappy, 
mem,"  said  Malcolm;  but  she  went  on 
without  heeding  the  remark : 

" — And  that  you  rescued  him  not  long 
ago  from  the  hands  of  ruffians." 

Malcolm  made  no  reply. 

"  Everybody  knows,"  she  continued 
after  a  slight  pause,  "what  an  unhappy 
mother  I  am.  It  is  many  years  since  I 
lost  the  loveliest  infant  ever  seen,  while 
my  poor  Stephen  was  left  to  be  the 
mocker)^  of  every  urchin  in  the  street." 

She  sighed  deeply,  and  one  of  the  fair 
hands  took  a  handkerchief  from  a  work- 
table  near. 

"No  in  Portlossie,  mem,"  said  Mal- 
colm. "There's  verra  feow  o'  them  so 
hard-hertit  or  so  ill-mainnert.  They're 
used  to  seein'  him  at  the  schuil,  whaur 
he  shaws  himsel'  whiles ;  and  he's  a 
great  favorite  wi'  them,  for  he's  ane  o' 
the  best  craturs  livin'." 

"  A  poor  witless,  unmanageable  being. 
He's  a  dreadful  grief  to  me,"  said  the 
widowed  mother  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"A  bairn  could  manage  him,"  said 
Malcolm  in  strong  contradiction. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  but  convince  him  of 
my  love !  But  he  won't  give  me  a 
chance.  He  has  an  unaccountable 
dread  of  me,  which  makes  him  as  well 
as  me  wretched.  It  is  a  delusion  which 
no  argument  can  overcome,  and  seems 
indeed  an  essential  part  of  his  sad  afflic- 
tion. The  more  care  and  kindness  he 
needs,  the  less  will  he  accept  at  my 
hands.  I  long  to  devote  my  life  to  him, 
and  he  will  not  allow  me.  I  should  be 
but  too  happy  to  nurse  him  day  and 
night.  Ah,  Mr.  MacPhail,  you  little 
know  a  mother's  heart.  Even  if  my 
beautiful  boy  had  not  been  taken  from 
me,  Stephen  would  still  have  been  my 
idol,  idiot  as  he  is  and  will  be  as  long  as 
he  lives.     And — " 

"He's  nae  idiot,  mem,"  interposed 
Malcolm. 

" — And  just  imagine,"  she  went  on, 
"what  a  misery  it  must  be  to  a  widowed 
mother,  poor  companion  as  he  would  be 
at  the  best,  to  think  of  her  boy  roaming 
the  country  like  a  beggar!  sleeping  she 
doesn't  know  where  !  eating  wretched 
food  !  and — " 


"Good  parritch  an'  milk,  an'  brose  an' 
butter,"  said  Malcolm  parenthetically — 
"whiles  herrin'  an'  yallow  baddies." 

"  It's  enough  to  break  a  mother's  heart. 
If  I  could  but  persuade  him  to  come 
home  for  a  week,  so  as  to  have  a  chance 
with  him  !  But  it's  no  use  trying :  ill- 
disposed  people  have  made  mischief  be- 
tween us,  telling  wicked  lies  and  terrify- 
ing the  poor  fellow  almost  to  death.  It 
is  quite  impossible  except  I  get  some 
one  to  help  me ;  and  there  are  so  few 
who  have  any  influence  with  him  !" 

Malcolm  thought  she  must  surely  have 
had  chances  enough  before  he  ran  away 
from  her,  but  he  could  not  help  feeling 
softened  toward  her. 

"Supposin'  I  was  to  get  ye  speech  o' 
'im,  mem  ?"  he  said. 

"  That  would  not  be  of  the  slightest  use. 
He  is  so  prejudiced  against  me,  he  would 
only  shriek  and  go  into  one  of  those 
horrible  fits." 

"  I  dinna  see  what's  to  be  dune,  than," 
said  Malcolm. 

"  I  must  have  him  brought  here  :  there 
is  no  other  way." 

"An'  whaur  wad  be  the  guid  o'  that, 
mem  ?  By  yer  ain  shawin',  he  wad  rin 
oot  o'  's  verra  body  to  win  awa'  frae  ye." 

"I  did  not  mean  by  force,"  returned 
Mrs.  Stewart.  "  Some  one  he  has  con- 
fidence in  must  come  with  him.  Noth- 
ing else  will  give  me  a  chance.  He 
would  trust  you,  now :  your  presence 
would  keep  him  from  being  terrified — at 
his  own  mother,  alas !  Through  you  he 
would  learn  to  trust  me  ;  and  if  a  course 
of  absolute  indulgence  did  not  bring  him 
to  live  like  other  people — that  of  course 
is  impossible — it  might  at  least  induce 
him  to  live  at  hom.e,  and  cease  to  be  a 
by-word  to  the  neighborhood." 

Her  tone  was  so  refined  and  her  voice 
so  pleading,  her  sorrow  was  so  gentle, 
and  she  looked  in  the  dimness,  to  Mal- 
colm's imagination  at  least,  so  young, 
and  handsome,  that  the  strong  castle  of 
his  prejudices  was  swaying  as  if  built  on 
reeds ;  and  had  it  not  been  that  he  was 
already  tlie  partisan  of  her  son,  and 
therefore  in  honor  bound  to  give  him 
the  benefit  of  every  doubt,  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  gained  over  to  work 


MALCOLM. 


147 


her  will.  He  knew  absolutely  nothing 
against  her — not  even  that  she  was  the 
person  he  had  seen  in  Mrs.  Catanach's 
company  in  the  garret  of  Lossie  House. 
But  he  steeled  himself  to  distrust  her, 
and  held  his  peace. 

"  It  is  clear,"  she  resumed  after  a  pause, 
"that  the  intervention  of  some  friend  of 
both  is  the  only  thing  that  can  be  of  the 
smallest  use.  I  know  you  are  a  friend 
of  his — a  true  one — and  I  do  not  see  why 
you  should  not  be  a  friend  of  mine  as 
well.     Will  you  be  my  friend  too  ?" 

She  rose  as  she  said  the  words,  and, 
approaching  him,  bent  on  him  out  of 
the  shadow  the  full  strength  of  ^yes 
whose  light  had  not  yet  begun  to  pale 
before  the  dawn  we  call  death,  and  held 
out  a  white  hand  glimmering  in  the  dusk  : 
she  knew  only  too  well  the  power  of  a 
still  fine  woman  of  any  age  over  a  youth 
of  twenty. 

Malcolm,  knowing  nothing  about  it, 
yet  felt  hers,  and  was  on  his  guard.  He 
rose  also,  but  did  not  take  her  hand. 

"  I  have  had  only  too  much  reason," 
she  added,  "to  distrust  some  who,  unlike 
you,  professed  themselves  eager  to  serve 
me;  but  I  know  neither  Lord  Lossie  nor 
you  will  play  me  false." 

She  took  his  great  rough  hand  between 
her  two  soft  palms,  and  for  a  moment 
Malcolm  was  tempted — not  to  betray  his 
friend,  but  to  simulate  a  yielding  sympa- 
thy, in  order  to  come  at  the  heart  of 
her  intent,  and,  should  it  prove  false,  to 
foil  it  the  more  easily.  But  the  honest 
nature  of  him  shrunk  from  deception, 
even  where  the  object  of  it  was  good : 
he  was  not  at  liberty  to  use  falsehood  for 
the  discomfiture  of  the  false  even.  A 
pretended  friendship  was  of  the  vilest 
of  despicable  things,  and  the  more  holy 
the  end  the  less  fit  to  be  used  for  the 
compassing  of  it — least  of  all  in  the 
cause  of  a  true  friendship. 

"I  canna  help  ye,  mem,"  he  said  :  "  I 
daurna.  I  hae  sic  a  regaird  for  yer  son 
'at  afore  I  wad  du  onything  to  hairm 
him  I  wad  hae  my  twa  ban's  chappit  frae 
the  shackle-bane." 

"Surely,  my  dear  Mr.  MacPhail,"  re- 
turned the  lady  in  her  most  persuasive 
tones  and  with  her  sweetest  smile,  "you 


cannot  call  it  harming  a  poor  idiot  to  re- 
store him  to  the  care  of  his  own  mother?" 

"That's  as  it  turnt  oot,"  rejoined  Mal- 
colm. "But  I'm  sure  o'  ae  thing,  mem, 
an'  that  is,  'at  he's  no  sae  muckle  o'  an 
eediot  as  some  fowk  wad  hae  him." 

Mrs.  Stewart's  face  fell.  She  turned 
from  him,  and  going  back  to  her  seat 
hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said  sadly,  after  a 
moment,  "  I  must  give  up  my  last  hope  : 
you  are  not  disposed  to  be  friendly  to 
me,  Mr.  MacPhail.     You  too  have  been  ' 
believing  hard  things  of  me." 

"That's  true,  but  no  frae  hearsay 
alane,"  returned  Malcolm.  "The  luik 
o'  the  puir  fallow  whan  he  but  hears  the 
chance  word  mither  's  a  sicht  no  to  be 
forgotten.  He  grips  his  lugs  atween  's 
twa  ban's  an'  rins  like  a  coUey  wi'  a 
pan  at 's  tail.  That  cudna  come  o'  nae- 
thing." 

Mrs.  Stewart  hid  her  face  on  the  cush- 
ioned arm  of  the  settee  and  sobbed.  A 
moment  after  she  sat  erect  again,  but 
languid  and  red-eyed,  saying,  as  if  with 
sudden  resolve,  "I  will  tell  you  all  I 
know  about  it,  and  then  you  can  judge 
for  yourself.  When  he  was  a  very*small 
child  I  took  him  for  advice  to  the  best 
physicians  in  London  and  Paris:  all  ad- 
vised a  certain  operation  which  had  to 
be  performed  for  consecutive  months  at 
intervals  of  a  few  days.  Though  pain- 
ful it  was  simple,  yet  of  such  a  nature 
that  no  one  was  so  fit  to  attend  to  it  as 
his  mother.  Alas!  instead  of  doing  him 
any  good,  it  has  done  me  the  worst  in- 
jury in  the  world:  my  child  hates  me." 

Again  she  hid  her  face  on  the  settee. 

The  explanation  was  plausible  enough, 
and  the  grief  of  the  mother  surely  appar- 
ent. Malcolm  could  not  but  be  touched  : 
"It's  no  'at  I'm  no  willin'  to  be  your 
freen',  mem ;  but  I'm  yer  son's  freen' 
a'ready,  an'  gien  he  was  to  hear  ony- 
thing 'at  gart  him  mislippen  till  me,  it 
wad  gang  to  my  hert." 

"Then  you  can  judge  what  I  feel," 
said  the  lady. 

"Gien  it  wad  hale  your  hert  to  hurt 
mine,  I  wad  think  aboot  it,  mem,  but 
gien  it  hurtit  a'  three  o'  's,  and  did  guid 
to  nane,  it  wad  be  a  misfit  a'thegither. 


148 


MALCOLM. 


I'll  du  naething  till  I'm  doonricht  sure 
it's  the  pairt  o'  a  freen'." 

"That's  just  what  makes  you  the  only 
fit  person  to  help  me  that  I  know.  If  I 
were  to  employ  people  in  the  affair  they 
might  be  rough  with  the  poor  fellow." 

"Like  eneuch,  mem,"  assented  Mal- 
colm, while  the  words  put  him  afresh  on 
his  guard. 

"But  I  might  be  driven  to  it,"  she 
added. 

Malcolm  responded  with  an  unuttered 
vow. 

"  It  might  become  necessary  to  use 
force,  whereas  you  could  lead  him  with 
a  word." 

"Na,  I'm  naither  sic  witch  nor  sic 
traitor." 

"Where  would  be  the  treachery  when 
you  knew  it  would  be  for  his  good  ?" 

"That's  jist  what  I  dinna  ken,  mem," 
retorted  Malcolm.  "  Luik  ye  here,  mem," 
he  continued,  rousing  himself  to  venture 
an  appeal  to  the  mother's  heart:  "here's 
a  man  it  has  pleased  God  to  mak  no 
freely  like  ither  fowk.  His  min',  though 
cawpable  o'  a  hantle  mair  nor  a  body 
wad  think  'at  didna  ken  him  sae  weel  as 
I  do,'  is  certainly  weyk — though  maybe 
the  weykness  lies  mair  i'  the  tongue  than 
i'  the  brain  o'  'im,  efter  a' — an'  he's  been 
sair  frichtit  wi'  some  guideship  or  ither ; 
the  upshot  o't  a'  bein'  'at  he's  unco  tim- 
orsome,  and  ready  to  bursten  himsel' 
rinnin'  whan  there's  nane  pursuin'.  But 
he's  the  gentlest  o'  craturs — a  doonricht 
gentleman,  mem,  gien  ever  there  was 
ane — an'  that  kin'ly  wi'  a'  cratur,  baith 
man  an'  beast !  A  verra  bairn  cud  guide 
him  ony  gait  but  ane." 

"Anywhere  but  to  his  mother,"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Stewart,  pressing  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes  and  sobbing  as  she 
spoke.  "There  is  a  child  he  is  very  fond 
of,  I  am  told,"  she  added,  recovering 
herself. 

"  He  likes  a'  bairns,"  returned  Mal- 
colm, "an'  they're  maistly  a'  freen'ly  wi' 
him.  But  there's  but  jist  ae  thing  'at 
maks  life  endurable  till  'im.  He  suffers 
a  hantle  [a  great  deal)  wi  that  puir  back 
o'  his,  an'  wi'  his  breath  tu  whan  he's 
frichtit,  for  his  hert  gangs  loupin  like  a 
sawmon  in  a  bag-net.     An'  he  suffers  a 


hantle,  forbye,  in  his  puir  feeble  min', 
tryin'  to  unnerstan'  the  guid  things  'at 
fowk  tells  him,  an'  jaloosin'  it's  his  ain 
wyte  'at  he  disna  unnerstan'  them  bet- 
ter; an'  whiles  he  thinks  himsel'  the 
child  o'  sin  and  wrath,  an'  that  Sawtan 
has  some  special  propriety  in  him,  as  the 
carritchis  says — " 

"  But,"  interrupted  the  lady  hurriedly, 
"you  were  going  to  tell  me  the  one  com- 
fort he  has." 

"  It's  his  leeberty,  mem — jist  his  leeb- 
erty  —  to  gang  whaur  he  lists  like  the 
win' ;  to  turn  his  face  whaur  he  wull  i' 
the  mornin',  an'  back  again  at  nicht 
gien  he  likes;  to  wan'er — " 

"Back  ivhej'e?"  interrupted  the  moth- 
er, a  little  too  eagerly. 

"Whaur  he  likes,  mem:  I  cudna  say 
whaur  wi'  ony  certainty.  But  aih  !  he 
likes  to  hear  the  sea  moanin'  an'  watch 
the  stars  sheenin'.  There's  a  sicht  o' 
oondevelopit  releegion  in  him,  as  Maister 
Graham  says ;  an'  I  div  not  believe  'at 
the  Lord  '11  see  him  wranged  mair  nor  's 
for  's  guid.  But  it's  my  belief,  gien  ye 
took  the  leeberty  fra  the  puir  cratur,  ye 
wad  kill  him." 

"Then  you  won't  help  me  ?"  she  cried 
despairingly.  "They  tell  me  you  are  an 
orphan  yourself,  and  yet  you  will  not 
take  pity  on  a  childless  mother — worse 
than  childless,  for  I  had  the  loveliest  boy 
once.  He  would  be  about  your  age  now, 
and  I  have  never  had  any  comfort  in  life 
since  I  lost  him.  Give  me  my  son,  and 
1  will  bless  you,  love  you." 

As  she  spoke  she  rose,  and,  approach- 
ing him  gently,  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. Malcolm  trembled,  but  stood  his 
mental  ground. 

"'Deed,  mem,  I  can  an'  wull  promise 
ye  naething,"  he  said.  "Are  ye  to  play 
a  man  fause  'cause  he's  less  able  to  tak 
care  o'  himsel'  than  ither  fowk  ?  Gien 
I  war  sure  'at  ye  cud  mak  it  up,  an'  'at 
he  wad  be  happy  wi'  ye  efterhin,  it  micht 
be  anither  thing ;  but  e.xcep'  ye  garred 
him  ye  cudna  get  him  to  bide  lang  eneuch 
for  ye  to  tr)' ;  an'  syne  [even  then)  he 
wad  dec  afore  ye  bed  convenced  him. 
I  doobt,  mem,  ye  hae  lost  ycr  chance  wi' 
him,  and  maun  du  yer  best  to  be  con- 
tent withoot  him.     I'll  promise  ye  this 


MALCOLM. 


149 


muckle,  gien  ye  like  :  I  s'  tell  him  what 
ye  hae  said  upo'  the  subjec'." 

"  Much  good  that  will  be  !"  replied  the 
lady,  with  ill-concealed  scorn. 

"Ye  think  he  wadna  unnerstan'  't,  but 
he  unnerstan's  wonnerfu'." 

"And  you  would  come  again,  and  tell 
me  what  he  said  ?"  she  murmured,  with 
the  eager  persuasiveness  of  reviving 
hope. 

"  Maybe  ay,  maybe  no — I  winna  prom- 
ise. Hae  ye  ony  answer  to  sen'  back  to 
my  lord's  letter,  mem  ?" 

"No;  I  cannot  write;  I  cannot  even 
think.  You  have  made  me  so  miserable." 

Malcolm  lingered. 

"Go,  go,"  said  the  lady  dejectedly. 
"  Tell  your  master  I  am  not  well.  I  will 
write  to-morrow.  If  you  hear  anything 
of  my  poor  boy,  do  take  pity  upon  me 
and  come  and  tell  me." 

The  stiffer  partisan  Malcolm  appeared 
the  more  desirable  did  it  seem  in  Mrs. 
Stewart's  eyes  to  gain  him  over  to  her 
side.  Leaving  his  probable  active  hos- 
tility out  of  the  question,  she  saw  plain- 
ly enough  that,  if  he  were  called  on  to 
give  testimony  as  to  the  laird's  capacity, 
his  evidence  would  pull  strongly  against 
her  plans ;  while  if  the  interests  of  such 
a  youth  were  wrapped  up  in  them,  that 
fact  in  itself  would  prejudice  most  people 
in  favor  of  them. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 
THE    BLOW. 

"Well,  Malcolm,"  said  his  lordship 
when  the  youth  reported  himself,  "how's 
Mrs.  Stewart  ?" 

"No  ower  weel  pleased,  my  lord,"  an- 
swered Malcolm. 

"What!  you  haven't  been  refusing 
to—?" 

"  'Deed  hev  I,  my  lord." 

"  Tut !  tut !  Have  you  brought  me 
any  message  from  her  ?" 

He  spoke  rather  angrily. 

"  Nane  but  that  she  wasna  weel,  an' 
wad  write  the  morn." 

The  marquis  thought  for  a  few  mo- 
ments :  "  If  I  make  a  personal  matter 
of  it,  MacPhail —     I   mean,  you  won't 


refuse  me  if  I  ask  a  personal  favor  of 
you  ?" 

"  I  maun  ken  what  it  is  afore  I  say 
onything,  my  lord." 

"  You  may  trust  me  not  to  require  any- 
thing you  couldn't  undertake." 

"There  micht  be  twa  opinions,  my 
lord." 

"  You  young  boor  !  What  is  the  world 
coming  to  ?     By  Jove  !" 

"As  far  's  I  can  gang  wi'  a  clean  con- 
science, I'll  gang — no  ae  step  ayont," 
said  Malcolm. 

"You  mean  to  say  your  judgment  is  a 
safer  guide  than  mine  ?" 

"  No,  my  lord  :  I  micht  weel  follow  yer 
lordship's  jeedgment,  but  gien  there  be 
a  conscience  i'  the  affair,  it's  my  ain  con- 
science I'm  bun'  to  follow,  an'  no  yer 
lordship's  or  ony  ither  man's.  Suppose 
the  thing  'at  seemed  richt  to  yer  lordship 
seemed  wrang  to  me,  what  wad  ye  hae 
me  du  than  ?" 

"Do  as  I  told  you  and  lay  the  blame 
on  me." 

"Na,  my  lord,  that  winna  baud:  I 
bude  to  du  what  I  thocht  richt,  an'  lay 
the  blame  upo'  nobody,  whatever  cam 
o'  't." 

"You  young  hypocrite!  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  you  meant  to  set  up  for  a 
saint  before  I  took  you  into  my  service  ?" 

"'Cause  I  had  nae  sic  intention,  my 
lord.  Surely  a  body  micht  ken  himsel' 
nae  sant  an'  yet  like  to  haud  his  ban's 
clean." 

"What  did  Mrs.  Stewart  tell  you  she 
wanted  of  you?"  asked  the  marquis,  al- 
most fiercely,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"She  wantit  me  to  get  the  puir  laird  to 
gang  back  till  her ;  but  I  sair  misdoobt, 
for  a'  her  fine  words,  it's  a  closed  door, 
gien  it  bena  a  lid,  she  wad  hae  upon 
him ;  an'  I  wad  suner  be  hangt  nor  hae 
a  thoom  i'  that  haggis." 

"Why  should  you  doubt  what  a  lady 
tells  you  ?" 

"  I  wadna  be  ower  ready,  but  I  hae 
hard  things,  ye  see,  an'  bude  to  be  upo' 
my  gaird." 

"Well,  I  suppose,  as  you  are  a  per- 
sonal friend  of  the  idiot's — " 

His  lordship  had  thought  to  sting  him, 
and  paused  for  a  moment,  but  Malcolm's 


150 


MALCOLM. 


manner  revealed  nothing  except  waiting 
watchfulness. 

" — I  must  employ  some  one  else  to 
get  a  hold  of  the  fellow  for  her,"  he 
concluded. 

"Ye  winna  du  that,  my  lord,"  cried 
Malcolm  in  a  tone  of  entreaty,  but  his 
master  chose  to  misunderstand  him. 

"Who's  to  prevent  me,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?"  he  said. 

Malcolm  accepted  the  misinterpreta- 
tion involved,  and  answered,  but  calm- 
ly, "  Me,  my  lord  :  /  wuU.  At  ony  rate, 
I  s'  du  my  best." 

"Upon  my  word !"  exclaimed  Lord 
Lossie,  "you  presume  sufficiently  on  my 
good-nature,  young  man  !" 

"  Hear  me  ae  moment,  my  lord,"  re- 
turned Malcolm.  "I've  been  turnin'  't 
ower  i'  my  min',  an'  I  see,  plain  as  the 
daylicht,  that  I'm  bun',  bein'  yer  lord- 
ship's servan'  an'  trustit  by  yer  lordship, 
to  say  that  to  yersel'  the  whilk  I  was 
nowise  bun'  to  say  to  Mistress  Stewart. 
Sae,  at  the  risk  o'  angerin'  ye,  I  maun 
tell  yer  lordship,  wi'  a'  respec',  'at  gien 
I  can  help  it  there  sail  no  han',  gentle 
or  semple,  be  laid  upo'  the  laird  against 
his  ain  wuU." 

The  marquis  was  getting  tired  of  the 
contest.  He  was  angry  too,  and  none 
the  less  that  he  felt  Malcolm  was  in  the 
right. 

"  Go  to  the  devil,  you  booby  !"  he  said, 
even  more  in  impatience  than  in  wrath. 

"I'm  thinkin'  I  needna  budge,"  re- 
torted Malcolm,  angry  also. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  inso- 
lence ?" 

"  I  mean,  my  lord,  that  to  gang  will 
be  to  gzx\g  frae  him.  He  canna  be  far 
frae  yer  lordship's  lug  this  meenute." 

All  the  marquis's  gathered  annoyance 
broke  out  at  last  in  rage.  He  started 
from  his  chair,  made  three  strides  to 
Malcolm  and  struck  him  in  the  face. 

Malcolm  staggered  back  till  he  was 
brought  up  by  the  door.  "Hoot,  my 
lord !"  he  exclaimed  as  he  sought  his 
blue  cotton  handkerchief,  "ye  sudna  hae 
dune  that:  ye'U  blaud  the  carpet." 

"You  precious  idiot!"  cried  his  lord- 
ship, already  repenting  the  deed,  "  why 
didn't  you  defend  yourself?" 


"The  quarrel  was  my  ain,  an'  I  cud 
du  as  1  likit,  my  lord." 

"And  why  should  you  like  to  take  a 
blow  ?  Not  to  lift  a  hand,  even  to  de- 
fend yourself!"  said  the  marquis,  vexed 
both  with  Malcolm  and  with  himself. 

"Because  I  saw  I  was  i'  the  wrang, 
my  lord.  The  quarrel  was  o'  my  ain 
makin' :  I  hed  no  richt  to  lowse  my 
temper  an'  be  impident.  Sae  I  didna 
daur  defen'  mysel'.  And  I  beg  yer  lord- 
ship's pardon.  But  dinna  ye  du  me  the 
wrang  to  imagine,  my  lord,  'cause  I  took 
a  flewet  [blow)  in  good  pairt  whan  I  ken 
mysel'  i'  the  wrang,  'at  that's  hoo  I  wad 
cairry  mysel'  gien  'twas  for  the  puir  laird. 
Faith !  I  s'  gar  ony  man  ken  a  differ 
there !" 

"Go  along  with  you,  and  don't  show 
yourself  till  you're  fit  to  be  seen.  I  hope 
it  '11  be  a  lesson  to  you." 

"It  wull,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm. 
"But,"  he  added,  "there  was  nae  occa- 
sion to  gie  me  sic  a  dirdum  :  a  word  wad 
had  pitten  me  mair  i'  the  wrang." 

So  saying,  he  left  the  room  with  his 
handkerchief  to  his  face. 

The  marquis  was  really  sorrj'  for  the 
blow,  chiefly  because  Malcolm,  without 
a  shadow  of  pusillanimity,  had  taken  it 
so  quietly.  Malcolm  would,  however, 
have  had  very  much  more  the  worse  of 
it  had  he  defended  himself,  for  his  mas- 
ter had  been  a  bruiser  in  his  youth,  and 
neither  his  left  hand  nor  his  right  arm 
had  yet  forgot  its  cunning  so  far  as  to 
leave  him  less  than  a  heavy  .overmatch 
for  one  unskilled,  whatever  his  strength 
or  agility. 

For  some  time  after  he  was  gone  the 
marquis  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 
feeling  strangely  and  unaccountably  un- 
comfortable. "  The  great  lout !"  he  kept 
saying  to  himself,  "why  did  he  let  me 
strike  him  ?" 

Malcolm  went  to  his  grandfather's  cot- 
tage. In  passing  the  window  he  peeped 
in.  The  old  man  was  sitting  with  his 
bagpipes  on  his  knees,  looking  troubled. 
When  he  entered  the  old  man  held  out 
his  arms  to  him. 

"Tcre'U  pe  something  cone  wrong 
with  you,  Malcolm,  my  son  !"  he  cried. 
"You'll  pe  hafing  a  hurt !    She  knows  it. 


MALCOLM. 


151 


she  has  it  within  her,  though  she  couldn't 
chust  see  it.     Where  is  it  ?" 

As  he  spoke  he  proceeded  to  feel  his 
head  and  face. 

"God  pless  her  sowl !  you  are  plood- 
ing,  Malcolm  !"  he  cried  the  same  mo- 
ment. 

"  It's  naething  to  greit  aboot,  daddy. 
It's  hardly  mair  nor  the  flype  o'  a  saw- 
'  mon's  tail." 

"  Put  who  '11  pe  tone  it  ?"  asked  Dun- 
can angrily. 

"Ow,  the  maister  gae  me  a  bit  flewet," 
answered  Malcolm  with  indifference. 

"Where  is  he  ?"  cried  the  piper,  rising 
in  wrath.  "Tak  her  to  him,  Malcolm. 
She  will  stap  him.  She  will  pe  killing 
him.  She  will  trive  her  turk  into  his 
wicked  pody." 

"Na,  na,  daddy,"  said  Malcolm:  "we 
hae  hed  eneuch  o'  dirks  a'ready." 

"Then  you  haf  tone  it  yourself,  then, 
Malcolm  ?     My  prave  poy  !" 

"No,  daddy:  I  took  my  licks  like  a 
man,  for  I  deserved  them." 

"  Deserfed  to  pe  peaten,  Malcolm  ? — • 
to  pe  peaten  like  a  tog  ?  Ton't  tell  her 
that !     Ton't  preak  her  heart,  my  poy." 

"  It  wasna  that  muckle,  daddy.  I  only 
telled  him  Auld  Horny  was  at  's  lug." 

"And  she'll  make  no  toubt  it  was 
true,"  cried  Duncan,  emerging  sudden 
from  his  despondency. 

"Ay,  sae  he  was,  only  I  had  no  richt 
to  .say  't." 

"Put  you  striked  him  pack,  Malcolm  ? 
Ton't  say  you  tidn't  gif  him  pack  his 
plow.     Ton't  tell  it  to  her,  Malcolm." 

"  Hoo  cud  I  hit  my  maister,  an'  mysel' 
i'  the  wrang,  daddy?" 

"Then  she  '11  must  to  it  herself,"  said 
Duncan  quietly,  and  with  the  lips  com- 
pressed of  calm  decision  turned  toward 
the  door,  to  get  his  dirk  from  the  next 
room. 

"Bide  ye  still,  daddy,"  said  Malcolm, 
laying  hold  of  his  arm,  "an'  sit  ye  doon 
till  ye  hear  a'  aboot  it  first." 

Duncan  yielded,  for  the  sake  of  better 
instruction  in  the  circumstances,  over 
the  whole  of  which  Malcolm  now  went. 
But  before  he  came  to  a  close  he  had 
skillfully  introduced  and  enlarged  upon 
the  sorrows  and  sufferings  and  dangers 


of  the  laird,  so  as  to  lead  the  old  man 
away  from  the  quarrel,  dwelling  especial- 
ly on  the  necessity  of  protecting  Mr. 
Stewart  from  the  machinations  of  his 
mother.  Duncan  listened  to  all  he  said 
with  marked  sympathy. 

"An'  gien  the  markis  daur  to  cross  me 
in  't,"  said  Malcolm  at  last  as  he  ended, 
"lat  him  leuk  till  himsel',  for  it's  no  at  a 
buffet  or  twa  I  wad  stick,  gien  the  puir 
laird  was  intill  't." 

This  assurance,  indicative  of  a  full 
courageous  intent  on  the  part  of  his  grand- 
son, for  whose  manliness  he  was  jealous, 
greatly  served  to  quiet  Duncan,  and  he 
consented  at  last  to  postpone  all  quit- 
tance, in  the  hope  of  Malcolm's  having 
the  opportunity  of  a  righteous  quarrel 
for  proving  himself  no  coward.  His 
wrath  gradually  died  away,  until  at  last  he 
begged  his  boy  to  take  his  pipes,  that  he 
rfiight  give  him  a  lesson.  Malcolm  made 
the  attempt,  but  found  it  impossible  to 
fill  the  bag  with  his  swollen  and  cut  lips, 
and  had  to  beg  his  grandfather  to  play 
to  him  instead.  He  gladly  consented, 
and  played  until  bedtime,  when,  having 
tucked  him  up,  Malcolm  went  quietly  to 
his  own  room,  avoiding  supper  and  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Courthope  together.  He 
fell  asleep  in  a  moment,  and  spent  a 
night  of  perfect  oblivion,  dreamless  of 
wizard  lord  or  witch  lady. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
THE    CUTfER. 

Some  days  passed,  during  which  Mal- 
colm contrived  that  no  one  should  see 
him  :  he  stole  down  to  his  grandfather's 
early  in  the  morning,  and  returned  to  his 
own  room  at  night.  Duncan  told  the 
people  about  that  he  was  not  very  well, 
but  would  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two. 
It  was  a  time  of  jubilation  to  the  bard, 
and  he  cheered  his  grandson's  retire- 
ment with  music,  and  with  wild  stories 
of  highland  lochs  and  mdors,  chanted 
or  told.  Malcolm's  face  was  now  much 
better,  though  the  signs  of  the  blow  were 
still  plain  enough  upon  it,  when  a  mes- 
senger came  one  afternoon  to  summon 
him  to  the  marquis's  presence. 


152 


MALCOLM. 


"Where  have  you  been  sulking  all  this 
time?"  was  his  master's  greeting. 

"I  havena  been  sulkin',  my  lord,"  an- 
swered Malcolm.  "Yer  lordship  tauld 
me  to  haud  oot  o'  the  gait  till  I  was  fit 
to  be  seen,  an'  no  a  sowl  has  set  an  ee 
upo'  me  till  this  verra  moment  'at  yer 
lordship  has  me  in  yer  ain." 

"Where  have  you  been,  then?" 

"!'  my  ain  room  at  nicht,  and  doon 
at  my  gran'father's  as  lang  's  fowk  was 
aboot — wi'  a  bit  dauner  [stroll)  up  the 
burn  i'  the  mirk." 

"You  couldn't  encounter  the  shame  of 
being  seen  with  such  a  face,  eh  ?" 

"  It  micht  ha'  been  thocht  a  disgrace 
to  the  tane  or  the  tither  o'  's,  my  lord — 
maybe  to  baith." 

"  If  you  don't  learn  to  curb  that  tongue 
of  yours,  it  will  bring  you  to  worse." 

"  My  lord,  I  confessed  my  faut  and  I 
pat  up  wi'  the  blow.  But  if  it  hadna 
been  that  I  was  i'  the  wrang — weel, 
things  micht  hae  differt." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  I  tell  you !  You're 
an  honest,  good  fellow,  and  I'm  sorry  I 
struck  you.     There!" 

"  I  thank  yer  lordship." 

"I  sent  for  you  because  I've  just  heard 
from  Aberdeen  that  the  boat  is  on  her 
way  round.  You  must  be  ready  to  take 
charge  of  her  the  moment  she  arrives." 

"  I  wuU  be  that,  my  lord.  It  doesna 
shuit  me  at  a'  to  be  sae  lang  upo'  the 
solid  :  I'm  like  a  cowt  upon  a  toU-ro'd." 

The  next  morning  he  got  a  telescope, 
and  taking  with  him  his  dinner  of  bread 
and  cheese,  and  a  book  in  his  pocket, 
went  up  to  the  Temple  of  the  Winds,  to 
look  out  for  the  boat.  Every  few  min- 
utes he  swept  the  offing,  but  morning  and 
afternoon  passed,  and  she  did  not  appear. 
The  day's  monotony  was  broken  only  by 
a  call  from  Demon.  Malcolm  looked 
landward,  and  spied  his  mistress  below 
amongst  the  trees,  but  she  never  looked 
.in  his  direction. 

He  had  just  become  aware  of  the  first 
■dusky  breath 'of  the  twilight,  when  a  tiny 
sloop  appeared  rounding  the  Deid  Hcid, 
as  they  called  the  promontory  which 
closed  in  the  bay  on  the  east.  The  sun 
was  setting,  red  and  large,  on  the  other 
side   of  the   Scaurnose,  and   filled   her 


white  sails  with  a  rosy  dye  as  she  came 
stealing  round  in  a  fair  soft  wind.  The 
moon  hung  over  her  thin  and  pale  and 
ghostly,  with  hardly  shine  enough  to 
show  that  it  was  indeed  she  and  not  the 
forgotten  scrap  of  a  torn-up  cloud.  As 
she  passed  the  point  and  turned  toward 
the  harbor,  the  warm  amethystine  hue 
suddenly  vanished  from  her  sails,  and 
she  looked  white  and  cold,  as  if  the  sight 
of  the  Death's  Head  had  scared  the 
blood  out  of  her. 

"It's  hersel'!"  cried  Malcolm  in  de- 
light. "Aboot  the  size  o'  a  muckle  her- 
rin'-boat,  but  nae  mair  like  ane  than 
Lady  Florimel  's  like  Meg  Partan.  It'll 
be  jist  gran'  to  hae  a  cratur  sae  near 
leevin'  to  guide  an'  tak  yer  wuU  o' !  I 
had  nae  idea  she  was  gaein'  to  be  ony- 
thing  like  sae  bonny.  I'll  no  be  fit  to 
manage  her  in  a  squall,  though.  I  maun 
hae  anither  han'.  An'  I  winna  hae  a 
laddie,  aither.  It  maun  be  a  grown  man, 
or  I  winna  tak  in  han'  to  haud  her  abune 
the  watter.  I  wuU  no.  I  's  hae  Blue 
Peter  himsel'  gien  I  can  get  him.  Eh  ! 
jist  luik  at  her,  wi'  her  bit  gaff-tappie 
set,  and  her  jib  an'  a',  booin'  an'  booin', 
an'  comin'  on  ye  as  gran'  's  ony  born 
leddy!" 

He  shut  up  the  telescope,  ran  down 
the  hill,  unlocked  the  private  door  at  its 
foot,  and  in  three  or  four  minutes  was 
waiting  her  on  the  harbor-wall. 

She  was  a  little  cutter,  and  a  lovely 
show  to  eyes  capable  of  the  harmonies  of 
shape  and  motion.  She  came  walking 
in,  as  the  Partan,  whom  Malcolm  found 
on  the  pierhead,  remarked,  "like  a  leddy 
closin'  her  parasol  as  she  cam."  Mal- 
colm jumped  on  board,  and  the  two  men 
who  had  brought  her  round  gave  up  their 
charge. 

She  was  full -decked,  with  a  dainty 
little  cabin.  Her  planks  were  almost 
white  :  there  was  not  a  board  in  her  off 
which  one  might  not,  as  the  Partan  ex- 
panded the  common  phrase,  "ait  his 
parritch  an'  never  fin'  a  mote  in  's  mou'." 
Her  cordage  was  all  so  clean,  her  stand- 
ing rigging  so  taut,  everything  so  ship- 
shape, that  Malcolm  was  in  raptures.  If 
the  burn  had  only  been  navigable,  so 
that  he  might  have  towed  the  graceful 


MALCOLM. 


153 


creature  home  and  laid  her  up  under  the 
very  walls  of  the  House  !  It  would  have 
perfected  the  place  in  his  eyes.  He  made 
her  snug  for  the  night  and  went  to  report 
her  arrival. 

Great  was  Lady  Florimel's  jubilation. 
She  would  have  set  out  on  a  "coasting 
voyage,"  as  she  called  it,  the  very  next 
day,  but  her  father  listened  to  Malcolm. 

"Ye  see,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm,  "I 
maun  ken  a'  aboot  her  afore  I  daur  tak 
ye  oot  in  her.  An'  I  canna  unnertak'  to 
manage  her  my  lane.  Ye  maun  jist  gie 
me  anither  man  wi'  me." 

"Get  one,"  said  the  marquis. 

Early  in  the  morning,  therefore,  Mal- 
colm went  to  Scaurnose,  and  found  Blue 
Peter  amongst  his  nets.     He  could  spare 


a  day  or  two,  and  would  join  him.  They 
returned  together,  got  the  cutter  into  the 
offing,  and  with  a  westerly  breeze  tried 
her  every  way.  She  answered  her  helm 
with  readiness,  rose  as  light  as  a  bird, 
made  a  good  board,  and  seemed  every 
way  a  safe  boat. 

"She's  the  bonniest  craft  ever  lainch- 
cd!"  said  Malcolm,  ending  a  description 
of  her  behavior  and  qualities  rather  too 
circumstantial  for  his  master  to  follow. 

They  were  to  make  their  first  trip  the 
next  morning  —  eastward,  if  the  wind 
should  hold,  landing  at  a  certain  ancient 
ruin  on  the  coast  two  or  three  miles  from 
Portlossie. 


I^^I^T    •VIII. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 
THE    TWO    DOGS. 

LADY  FLORIMEL'S  fancy  was  so 
full  of  the  expected  pleasure  that 
she  woke  soon  after  dawn.  She  rose 
and  anxiously  drew  aside  a  curtain  of  her 
window.  The  day  was  one  of  God's 
odes  written  for  men.  Would  that  the 
days  of  our  human  autumn  were  as 
calmly  grand,  as  gorgeously  hopeful,  as 
the  days  that  lead  the  aging  year  down 
to  the  grave  of  winter!  If  our  white 
hairs  were  sunlit  from  behind  like  those 
radiance  -  bordered  clouds  ;  if  our  air 
were  as  pure  as  this  when  it  must  be  as 
cold ;  if  the  falling  at  last  of  longest- 
cherished  hopes  did  but,  like  that  of  the 
forest  leaves,  let  in  more  of  the  sky,  more 
of  the  infinite  possibilities  of  the  region 
of  truth,  which  is  the  matrix  of  fact, — 
we  should  go  marching  down  the  hill 
of  life  like  a  battered  but  still  bannered 
army  on  its  way  home.  But,  alas  !  how 
often  we  rot,  instead  of  march,  toward 
the  grave  !  "  If  he  be  not  rotten  before 
he  die,"  said  Hamlet's  absolute  grave- 
digger.  If  the  year  was  dying  around 
Lady  Florimel,  as  she  looked,  like  a 
deathless  sun  from  a  window  of  the 
skies,  it  was  dying  at  least  with  dignity. 

The  sun  was  still  reveling  in  the  gift 
of  himself.  A  thin  blue  mist  went  up  to 
greet  him,  like  the  first  of  the  smoke 
from  the  altars  of  the  morning.  The 
field  lay  yellow  below;  the  rich  colors 
of  decay  hung  heavy  on  the  woods,  and 
seemed  to  clothe  them  as  with  the  trap- 
pings of  a  majestic  sorrow  ;  but  the  spi- 
der-webs sparkled  with  dew  and  the  gos- 
samer films  floated  thick  in  the  level 
sunbeams.  It  was  a  great  time  for  the 
spiders,  those  visible  Deaths  of  the  in- 
sect race. 

The  sun,  like  a  householder  leaving 

his  house  for  a  time,  was  burning  up  a 

thousand  outworn  things  before  he  went ; 

hence  the  smoke  of  the  dying  hearth  of 

154 


summer  was  going  up  to  the  heavens; 
but  there  was  a  heart  of  hope  left,  for, 
when  farthest  away,  the  sun  is  never 
gone,  and  the  snow  is  the  earth's  blanket 
against  the  frost.  But,  alas  !  it  was  not 
Lady  Florimel  who  thought  these  things. 
Looking  over  her  shoulder,  and  seeing 
both  what  she  can  and  what  she  cannot 
see,  I  am  having  a  think  to  myself. 

"Which  it  is  an  offence  to  utter  in  the 
temple  of  Art,"  cry  the  critics. 

Not  against  Art,  I  think ;  but  if  it  be 
an  offence  to  the  worshiper  of  Art,  let 
him  keep  silence  before  his  goddess:  for 
me,  I  am  a  sweeper  of  the  floors  in  the 
temple  of  Life,  and  his  goddess  is  my 
mare  and  shall  go  in  the  dust-cart.  If  I 
find  a  jewel  as  I  sweep,  I  will  fasten  it  on 
the  curtains  of  the  doors,  nor  heed  if  it 
should  break  the  fall  of  a  fold  of  the 
drapery. 

Below  Lady  Florimel's  oriel  window, 
under  the  tall  bridge,  the  burn  lay  dark 
in  a  deep  pool,  with  a  slow-revolving  ed- 
dy, in  which  one  leaf,  attended  by  a  streak 
of  white  froth,  was  performing  solemn  gy- 
rations. Away  to  the  north  the  great  sea 
was  merry  with  waves  and  spotted  with 
their  broken  crests  :  heaped  against  the 
horizon,  it  looked  like  a  blue  hill  dotted 
all  over  with  feeding  sheep.  But  to-day 
she  never  thought  lulty  the  waters  were 
so  busy — to  what  end  they  foamed  and 
ran,  flashing  their  laughter  in  the  face 
of  the  sun :  the  mood  of  Nature  was  in 
harmony  with  her  own,  and  she  felt  no 
need  to  discover  any  higher  import  in  its 
merriment.  How  could  she,  when  she 
sought  no  higher  import  in  her  own — 
had  not  as  yet  once  suspected  that  every 
human  gladness,  even  to  the  most  tran- 
sient flicker  of  delight,  is  the  reflex — from 
a  potsherd,  it  may  be — but  of  an  eternal 
sun  of  joy  ?  Stay,  let  me  pick  up  the 
gem  :  every  faintest  glimmer,  all  that  is 
not  utter  darkness,  is  from  the  shining 
face   of  the   Father   of  lights.     Not  a 


MALCOLM. 


155 


breath  stirred  the  ivy  leaves  about  her 
window,  but  out  there  on  the  wide  blue 
the  breezes  were  frolicking,  and  in  the 
harbor  the  new  boat  must  be  tugging 
to  get  free.  She  dressed  in  haste,  called 
her  stag-hound,  and  set  out  the  nearest 
way — that  is,  by  the  town-gate — for  the 
harbor.  She  must  make  acquaintance 
with  her  new  plaything. 

Mrs.  Catanach  in  her  nightcap  look- 
ed from  her  upper  window  as  she  passed, 
like  a  great  spider  from  the  heart  of  its 
web,  and  nodded  significantly  after  her, 
with  a  look  and  a  smile  such  as  might 
mean  that  for  all  her  good  looks  she 
might  have  the  heartache  some  day. 
But  she  was  to  have  the  first  herself,  for 
that  moment  her  ugly  dog,  now  and  al- 
ways with  the  look  of  being  fresh  from 
an  ash-pit,  rushed  from  somewhere  and 
laid  hold  of  Lady  Florimel's  dress,  fright- 
ening her  so  that  she  gave  a  cry.  In- 
stantly her  own  dog,  which  had  been 
loitering  behind,  came  tearing  up,  five 
lengths  at  a  bound,  and  descended  like 
an  angel  of  vengeance  upon  the  offen- 
sive animal,  which  would  have  fled,  but 
found  it  too  late.  Opening  his  huge  jaws. 
Demon  took  him  across  the  flanks,  much 
larger  than  his  own,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
rabbit.  His  howls  of  agony  brought  Mrs. 
Catanach  out  in  her  petticoats.  She  flew 
at  the  hound,  which  Lady  Florimel  was 
in  vain  attempting  to  drag  from  the  cur, 
and  seized  him  by  the  throat. 

"Take  care!  he  is  dangerous,"  cried 
the  girl. 

Finding  she  had  no  power  upon  him, 
Mrs.  Catanach  forsook  him,  and  in  de- 
spairing fury  rushed  at  his  mistress. 
Demon  saw  it  with  one  flaming  eye — 
left  the  cur,  which,  howling  hideously, 
dragged  his  hind  quarters  after  him  into 
the  house,  and  sprang  at  the  woman. 
Then  indeed  was  Lady  Florimel  terrified, 
for  she  knew  the  savage  nature  of  the 
animal  when  roused.  Truly,  with  his 
eyes  on  fire  as  now,  his  long  fangs  bared, 
the  bristles  on  his  back  erect  and  his 
moustache  sticking  straight  out,  he  might 
well  be  believed,  much  as  civilization 
might  have  done  for  him,  a  wolf  after  all. 
His  mistress  threw  herself  between  them 
and  flung  her  arms  tight  round  his  neck. 


"Run,  woman!  run  for  your  life!"  she 
shrieked.     "I  can't  hold  him  long." 

Mrs.  Catanach  fled,  cowed  by  terror. 
Her  huge  legs  bore  her  huge  body,  a 
tragi-comic  spectacle,  across  the  street  to 
her  open  door.  She  had  hardly  vanish- 
ed, flinging  it  to  behind  her,  when  De- 
mon broke  from  his  mistress,  and,  going 
at  the  door  as  if  launched  from  a  cata- 
pult, burst  it  open  and  disappeared  also. 

Lady  Florimel  gave  a  shriek  of  horror 
and  darted  after  him. 

The  same  moment  the  sound  of  Dun- 
can's pipes  as  he  issued  from  the  town- 
gate,  at  which  he  always  commenced  in- 
stead of  ending  his  reveille  now,  reached 
her,  and  bethinking  herself  of  her  inabil- 
ity to  control  the  hound,  she  darted  again 
from  the  cottage  and  flew  to  meet  him, 
crying  aloud,  "  Mr.  MacPhail !  Duncan  ! 
Duncan  !  stop  your  pipes  and  come  here 
directly." 

"  And  who  may  pe  calling  me  ?"  asked 
Duncan,  who  had  not  thoroughly  distin- 
guished the  voice  through  the  near  clam- 
or of  his  instrument. 

She  laid  her  hand  trembling  with  ap- 
prehension on  his  arm,  and  began  pull- 
ing him  along.  "  It's  me — Lady  Flori- 
mel," she  said.  "Come  here  directly. 
Demon  has  got  into  a  house  and  is  wor- 
rying a  woman." 

"God  haf  mercy!"  cried  Duncan. 
"Take  her  pipes,  my  laty,  for  fear  any- 
thing paad  should  happen  to  them." 

She  led  him  hurriedly  to  the  door. 
But  ere  he  had  quite  crossed  the  thresh- 
old he  shivered  and  drew  back.  "  This 
is  an  efil  house,"  he  said.  "She  '11  not 
can  CO  in." 

A  great  floundering  racket  was  going 
on  above,  mingled  with  growls  and 
shrieks,  but  there  was  no  howling. 

"Call  the  dog,  then.  He  will  mind 
you,  perhaps,"  she  cried — knowing  what 
a  slow  business  an  argument  with  Dun- 
can was — and  flew  to  the  stair. 

"Temon!  Temon!"  cried  Duncan  with 
agitated  voice. 

Whether  the  dog  thought  his  friend 
was  in  trouble  next,  I  cannot  tell,  but 
down  he  came  that  instant,  with  a  single 
bound  from  the  top  of  the  stair,  right 
over  his  mistress's  head  as  she  was  run- 


156 


MALCOLM. 


ning  up,  and  leaping  out  to  Duncan,  laid 
a  paw  upon  each  of  his  shoulders,  pant- 
ing with  out-lolled  tongue. 

But  the  piper  staggered  back,  pushing 
the  dog  from  him.  "It  is  plood!"  he 
cried — "ta  efil  woman's  plood  !" 

"  Keep  him  out,  Duncan  dear,"  said 
Lady  Florimel.  "  I  will  go  and  see. 
There !  he'll  be  up  again  if  you  don't 
mind." 

Very  reluctant,  yet  obedient,  the  bard 
laid  hold  of  the  growling  animal  by  the 
collar ;  and  Lady  Florimel  was  just  turn- 
ing to  finish  her  ascent  of  the  stair  and 
see  what  dread  thing  had  come  to  pass, 
when,  to  her  great  joy,  she  heard  Mal- 
colm's voice  calling  from  the  farther  end 
of  the  street,  "  Hey,  daddy,  what's  hap- 
pened 'at  I  dinna  hear  the  pipes  ?" 

She  rushed  out,  the  pipes  dangling 
from  her  hand,  so  that  the  drone  trailed 
on  the  ground  behind  her.  "  Malcolm  ! 
Malcolm!"  she  cried;  and  he  was  by 
her  side  in  scarcely  more  time  than  De- 
mon would  have  taken. 

Hurriedly  and  rather  incoherently  she 
told  him  what  had  taken  place.  He 
sprang  up  the  stair,  and  she  followed. 

In  the  front  garret — with  a  dormer 
window  looking  down  into  the  street — 
stood  Mrs.  Catanach  facing  the  door, 
with  such  a  malignant  rage  in  her  coun- 
tenance that  it  looked  demoniacal.  Her 
dog  lay  at  her  feet  with  his  throat  torn 
out. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  Malcolm  she  broke 
into  a  fury  of  vulgar  imprecation — most 
of  it  quite  outside  the  pale  of  artistic 
record. 

"  Hoots !  for  shame,  Mistress  Cata- 
nach !"  he  cried.  "  Here's  my  lady  ahin' 
me,  hearin'  ilka  word." 

"  Deil  stap  her  lugs  wi'  brunstane ! 
What  but  a  curse  wad  she  hae  frae  me  ? 
I  sweir  by  God  I  s'  gar  her  pey  for  this, 
or  my  name's  no — "  She  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

"I  thocht  as  muckle,"  said  Malcolm 
with  a  keen  look. 

"Ye'U  think  twise,  ye  deil's  buckie,  or 
ye  think  richt !  Wha  are  ye  to  think  .'' 
What  sud  my  name  be  but  Bawby  Cata- 
nach ?  Ye're  unco  upsettin'  sin'  ye  turn- 
ed my  Icddy's  flunky !     Sorrow  tak  ye 


baith  !  My  dawtit  Beauty  worriet  by  that 
hell-tyke  o'  hers !" 

"Gien  ye  gang  on  like  that,  the  markis 
'11  hae  ye  drummed  oot  o'  the  toon  or 
twa  days  be  ower,"  said  Malcolm. 

"Wull  he,  then?"  she  returned  with  a 
confident  sneer,  showing  all  the  teeth 
she  had  left.  "Ye'll  be  far  ben  wi'  the 
markis,  nae  doobt !  An'  yon  donnert 
auld  deevil  ye  ca'  yer  gran'father  'ill  be 
fain  eneuch  to  be  drummer,  I'll  sweir. 
Care's  my  case !" 

"My  leddy,  she's  ower  ill-tongued  for 
you  to  hearken  till,"  said  Malcolm,  turn- 
ing to  Florimel,  who  stood  in  the  door 
white  and  trembling.  "Jist  gang  doon 
an'  tell  my  gran'father  to  sen'  the  dog 
up.  There's  surely  some  gait  o'  garrin' 
her  baud  her  tongue." 

Mrs.  Catanach  threw  a  terrified  glance 
toward  Lady  Florimel. 

"Indeed  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  replied  Florimel.     "For  shame  !" 

"Hoots,  my  leddy!"  returned  Mal- 
colm, "I  only  said  it  to  try  the  effec'  o' 
't.     It  seems  no  that  ill." 

"Ye  son  o'  a  deevil's  soo !"  cried  the 
woman  :  "Is'  hae  amen's  o'  ye  for  this, 
gien  I  sud  ro'st  my  ain  hert  to  get  it." 

"'Deed,  but  ye're  duin  that  fine 
a'ready !  That  foul  brute  o'  yours  has 
gotten  his  ?^x\t.s{eartiest)\.\i.  I  wonner 
what  he  thinks  o'  sawmon-troot  noo  ? 
Eh,  mem  ?" 

"Have  done,  Malcolm,"  said  Florimel. 
"  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  If  the  woman 
is  not  hurt,  we  have  no  business  in  her 
house." 

"Hear  till  her!"  cried  Mrs.  Catanach 
contemptuously.     "'The  wotiian  /" 

But  Lady  Florimel  took  no  heed.  She 
had  already  turned,  and  was  going  down 
the  stair.  Malcolm  followed  in  silence, 
nor  did  another  word  from  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach overtake  them. 

Arrived  in  the  street,  Florimel  restored 
his  pipes  to  Duncan — who,  letting  the 
dog  go,  at  once  proceeded  to  fill  the  bag 
— and  instead  of  continuing  her  way  to 
the  harbor  turned  back,  accompanied  by 
Malcolm,  Demon  and  "Lady  Stronach's 
Strathspey." 

"What  a  horrible  woman  that  is  I"  she 
said  with  a  shudder. 


MALCOLM. 


157 


"Ay  is  she;  but  I  doobt  she  wad  be 
waur  gien  she  didna  brak  oot  that  gait 
whiles,"  rejoined  Malcolm. 
"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 
"It  frichts  fowk  at  her,  an'  maybe 
sometimes  pits  't  oot  o'  her  pooer  to  du 
waur.  Gien  ever  she  seek  to  mak  it  up 
wi'  ye,  my  leddy,  I  wad  hae  little  to  say 
till  her  gien  I  was  you." 

"What  could  I  have  to  say  to  a  low 
creature  like  that  ?" 

"Ye  wadna  ken  what  she  micht  be  up 
till,  or  hoo  she  micht  set  aboot  it,  my 
leddy.  I  wad  hae  ye  mistrust  her  a'the- 
gither.  My  daddy  has  a  fine  moral  nose 
for  vermin,  an'  he  cannabide  her,  though 
he  never  had  a  glimp  o'  the  fause  face  0' 
her,  an'  in  trowth  never  spak  till  her." 

"  I  will  tell  my  father  of  her.  A  wo- 
man like  that  is  not  fit  to  live  amongst 
civilized  people." 

"Ye're  richt  there,  my  leddy,  but  she 
wad  only  gang  some  ither  gait  amo'  the 
same.  Of  coorse  ye  maun  tell  yer  fath- 
er, but  she's  no  fit  for  him  to  tak  ony  no- 
tice o'." 

As  they  sat  at  breakfast  Florimel  did 
tell  her  father.  His  first  emotion,  how- 
ever— at  least  the  first  he  showed — was 
vexation  with  herself  "You  must  7tot 
be  going  out  alone,  and  at  such  ridicu- 
lous hours,"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  com- 
pelled to  get  you  a  governess." 

"Really,  papa,"  she  returned,  "I  don't 
see  the  good  of  having  a  marquis  for  a 
father  if  I  can't  go  about  as  safe  as  one 
of  the  fisher-children.  And  I  mighx  just 
as  well  be  at  school  if  I'm  not  to  do  as  I 
like." 

"What  if  the  dog  had  turned  on  you  ?" 
he  said. 

"If  he  dared!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  and 
her  eyes  flashed. 

Her  father  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
said  to  himself  "There  spoke  a  Colon- 
say  !"  and  pursued  the  subject  no  further. 
When  they  passed  Mrs.  Catanach's 
cottage  an  hour  after,  on  their  way  to 
the  harbor,  they  saw  the  blinds  drawn 
down,  as  if  a  dead  man  lay  within  :  ac- 
cording to  after  report,  she  had  the  brute 
already  laid  out  like  a  human  being,  and 
sat  by  the  bedside  awaiting  a  colrin  which 
she  had  ordered  of  Watty  Witherspail. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 
COLONSAY   CASTLE. 

The  day  continued  lovely,  with  a  fine 
breeze.  The  whole  sky  and  air  and  sea 
were  alive  —  with  moving  clouds,  with 
wind,  with  waves  flashing  in  the  sun.  As 
they  stepped  on  board  amidst  the  little 
crowd  gathered  to  see.  Lady  Florimel 
could  hardly  keep  her  delight  within  the 
bounds  of  so-called  propriety.  It  was 
all  she  could  do  to  restrain  herself  from 
dancing  on  the  little  deck  half  swept  by 
the  tiller.  The  boat  of  a  schooner  which 
lay  at  the  quay  towed  them  out  of  the 
harbor.  Then  the  creature  spread  her 
wings  like  a  bird — mainsail  and  gaff-top- 
sail, staysail  and  jib — leaned  away  to 
leeward,  and  seemed  actually  to  bound 
over  the  waves.  Malcolm  sat  at  the  til- 
ler and  Blue  Peter  watched  the  canvas. 

Lady  Florimel  turned  out  to  be  a  good 
sailor,  and  her  enjoyment  was  so  con- 
tagious as  even  to  tighten  certain  strings 
about  her  father's  heart  which  had  long 
been  too  slack  to  vibrate  with  any  simple 
gladness.  Her  questions  were  incessant 
— first  about  the  sails  and  rigging,  then 
about  the  steering;  but  when  Malcolm 
proceeded  to  explain  how  the  water  re- 
acted on  the  rudder,  she  declined  to 
trouble  herself  with  that. 

"Let  me  steer  first,"  she  said,  "and 
then  tell  me  how  things  work." 

"That  is  whiles  the  best  plan,"  said 
Malcolm.  "Jist  lay  yer  han'  upo'  the 
tiller,  my  leddy,  an'  luik  oot  at  yon  p'int 
they  ca'  the  Deid  Heid  yonner.  Ye  see, 
whan  I  turn  the  tiller  this  gait  her  heid 
fa's  aff  frae  the  p'int,  an'  whan  I  turn 't 
this  ither  gait  her  heid  turns  till 't  again  : 
baud  her  heid  jist  about  a  twa  yards  like 
aff  o'  't." 

Florimel  was  more  delighted  than  ever 
when  she  felt  her  own  hand  ruling  the 
cutter — so  overjoyed  indeed  that,  instead 
of  steering  straight,  she  would  keep  play- 
ing tricks  with  the  rudder,  fretting  the 
mouth  of  the  sea-palfrey,  as  it  were. 

Ever}'  now  and  then  Malcolm  had  to 
expostulate  :  "  Noo,  my  leddy,  caw  can- 
ny. Dinna  steer  sae  wuU.  Haud  her 
steddy. — My  lord,  wad  ye  jist  say  a  word 
to  my  leddy,  or  I'll  be  forced  to  tak  the 
tiller  fra  her?" 


158 


MALCOLM. 


But  by  and  by  she  grew  weary  of  the 
attention  required,  and  giving  up  the 
helm  began  to  seek  the  explanation  of 
its  influence  in  a  way  that  delighted  Mal- 
colm. 

"  Ye'll  male  a  guid  skipper  some  day," 
he  said:  "ye  speir  the  richt  questons, 
an'  that's  'maist  as  guid  's  kennin'  the 
richt  answers." 

At  length  she  threw  herself  on  the 
cushions  Malcolm  had  brought  for  her, 
and  while  her  father  smoked  his  cigar 
gazed  in  silence  at  the  shore.  Here, 
instead  of  sands,  low  rocks,  infinitely 
broken  and  jagged,  filled  all  the  tidal 
space — a  region  of  ceaseless  rush  and 
shattered  waters.  High  cliffs  of  gray 
and  brown  rock,  orange  and  green  with 
lichens  here  and  there,  and  in  summer 
crowned  with  golden  furze,  rose  behind 
— untouched  by  the  ordinary  tide,  but  at 
high  water  lashed  by  the  waves  of  a 
storm.  Beyond  the  headland  which  they 
were  fast  nearing  the  cliffs  and  the  sea 
met  at  half-tide. 

The  moment  they  rounded  it,  "Luik 
there,  my  lord!"  criedMalcolm.  "There's 
Colonsay  Castel,  'at  yer  lordship  gets  yer 
name,  I'm  thinkin' — an',  ony  gait,  ane  o" 
yer  teetles — frae.  It  maun  be  mony  a 
hunner  year  sin'  ever  a  Colonsay  baid 
intill't." 

Well  might  he  say  so,  for  they  looked, 
but  saw  nothing — only  cliff  beyond  cliff 
rising  from  a  white-fringed  shore.  Not 
a  broken  tower,  not  a  ragged  battlement 
invaded  the  horizon. 

"There's  nothing  of  the  sort  there," 
said  Lady  Florimel. 

"  Ye  maunna  luik  for  tooer  or  pinnacle, 
my  leddy,  for  nane  will  ye  see :  their 
time's  lang  ower.  But  jist  tak  the  sea- 
face  o'  the  scaur  {cliff)  i'  yer  ee,  an' 
traivel  alang  't  oontil  ye  come  till  a  bit 
'at  luiks  like  mason-wark.  It  scarce 
rises  abune  the  scaur  in  ony  but  ae  pairt, 
an'  there  it's  but  a  feow  feet  o'  a  wa'." 

Following  his  direction,  Lady  Florimel 
soon  found  the  ruin.  The  front  of  a 
projecting  portion  of  the  cliff  was  faced, 
from  the  very  water's  edge  as  it  seemed, 
with  mason-work,  while  on  its  side  the 
masonry  rested  here  and  there  upon  jut- 
ting masses  of  the  rock,  serving  as  Gor- 


bels  or  brackets,  the  surface  of  the  rock 
itself  completing  the  wall-front.  Above, 
grass-grown  heaps  and  mounds,  and  one 
isolated  bit  of  wall  pierced  with  a  little 
window,  like  an  empty  eyesocket  with 
no  skull  behind  it,  were  all  that  was  vis- 
ible from  the  sea  of  the  structure  which 
had  once  risen  lordly  on  the  crest  of  the 
cliff. 

"  It  is  poor  for  a  ruin,  even,"  said  Lord 
Lossie. 

"But  jist  consider  hoo  auld  the  place 
is,  my  lord — as  auld  as  the  time  o'  the 
sea-rovin'  Danes,  they  say.  Maybe  it's 
aulder  nor  King  Alfred.  Ye  maun  re- 
gaird  it  only  as  a  foondation  :  there's 
stanes  eneuch  lyin'  aboot  to  shaw  'at 
there  maun  hae  been  a  gran'  supper- 
structur  on  't  ance.  I  some  think  it  has 
been  ance  disconneckit  frae  the  Ian'  an' 
jined  on  by  a  drawbrig.  Mony  a  lump 
o'  rock  an'  castel  thegither  has  rowed 
doon  the  brae  upon  a'  sides,  an'  the  ruins 
may  weel  hae  filled  up  the  gully  at  last. 
It's  a  wonnerfu'  auld  place,  my  lord." 

"  What  would  you  do  with  it  if  it  were 
yours,  Malcolm?"  asked  Lady  Florimel. 

"  I  wad  spen'  a'  my  spare  time  patch- 
in'  't  up  to  gar't  Stan'  oot  agane  the 
wither.  It's  crum'let  awa'  a  heap  sin'  I 
min'." 

"What  would  be  the  good  of  that?  A 
rickle  of  old  stones!"  said  the  marquis. 

"  It's  a  growth  'at  there  winna  be  mony 
mair  like,"  returned  Malcolm.  "I  won- 
ner'  at  your  lordship!" 

He  was  now  steering  for  the  foot  of  the 
cliff.  As  they  approached  the  ruin  ex- 
panded and  separated,  grew  more  massy, 
and  yet  more  detailed.  Still,  it  was  a 
mere  root  clinging  to  the  soil. 

"  Suppose  you  were  Lord  Lossie,  Mal- 
colm, what  would  you  do  with  it  ?"  asked 
Florimel  seriously,  but  with  fun  in  her 
eyes. 

"I  wad  win  at  the  boddom  o'  't  first." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"Ye'll  see  whan  ye  win  intill't.  There's 
a  heap  o'  voutit  places  inside  you  blin' 
face.  Du  ye  see  yon  wee  bit  squaur 
winnock  ?  That  lats  the  licht  in  till  ane 
o'  them.  There  may  be  vouts  ancath 
vouts,  for  them  'at  ye  can  win  intill  's 
half  fu'  o'  yird  an'  stanes.     I  wad  hae  a' 


MALCOLM. 


159 


that  cleart  oot,  an'  syne  begin  frae  the 
verra  foondation,  biggin'  an'  patchin'  an' 
buttressin',  till  I  got  it  a'  as  soun'  as  a 
whunstane ;  an'  whan  I  cam  to  the  tap 
o'  the  rock,  there  the  castel  sud  tak  to 
growin'  again ;  an'  grow  it  sud,  till  there 
it  stude  as  near  what  it  was  as  the  wit  an' 
the  han'  o'  man  cud  set  it." 

"That  would  ruin  a  tolerably  rich 
man,!'  said  the  marquis. 

"Ony  gait,  it's  no  the  w'y  fowk  ruins 
themsel's  noo-a-days,  my  lord.  They'll 
pu'  doon  an  auld  hoose  ony  day  to  save 
themsel's  blastin'-poother.  There's  that 
gran'  place  they  ca'  Huntly  Castel  —  a 
suckin'  bairn  to  this  for  age,  but  wi 
wa's,  they  tell  me,  wad  stan'  for  thoo- 
sans  o'  years — wad  ye  believe  't,  there's 
a  sovvUess  chiel'  o'  a  factor  there  biggin' 
park-wa's  an'  a  grainary  oot'  o'  it,  as  gien 
'twar  a  quarry  o'  blue  stane  !  An'  what's 
ten  times  mair  exterord'nar,  there's  the 
duke  o'  Gordon  jist  lattin'  the  gype  tak  's 
wuU  o'  the  hoose  o'  His  Grace's  ain  for- 
bears !  I  wad  maist  as  sune  lat  a  man 
speyk  ill  o'  my  daddy." 

"But  this  is  past  all  rebuilding."  said 
his  lordship.  "  It  would  be  barely  pos- 
sible to  preserve  the  remains  as  they 
are." 

"  It  ivad  be  ill  to  du,  my  lord,  ohn  set 
it  up  again.  But  jist  think  what  a  gran' 
place  it  wad  be  to  bide  in  !" 

The  marquis  burst  out  laughing.  "A 
grand  place  for  gulls  and  kittiwakes  and 
sea-crows,"  he  said.  "But  where  is  it, 
pray,  that  a  fisherman  like  you  gets  such 
extravagant  notions  ?  How  do  you  come 
to  think  of  such  things  ?" 

"Thoucht's  free,  my  lord.  Gien  a 
thing  be  guid  to  think,  what  for  sudna 
a  fisher-lad  think  it?  I  hae  read  a  heap 
aboot  auld  castles  an'  sic-like  i'  the  his- 
tory o'  Scotlan',  an'  there's  mony  an 
auld  tale  an' ballant  aboot  them.  —  Jist 
luik  there,  my  leddy  !  Ye  see  yon  awfu' 
hole  i'  the  wa',  wi'  the  verra  inside  o' 
the  hill,  like,  rushin'  oot  at  it  ? — I  cud 
tell  ye  a  fearfu'  tale  aboot  that  same." 

"Do  let  us  have  it,"  said  Florimel 
eagerly,  setting  herself  to  listen. 

"Better  wait  till  we  land,"  said  the 
marquis  lazily. 

"Ay,  my  lord:   we're  ower  near  the 


shore  to  begin  a  story. — Slack  the  main- 
sheet,  Peter,  an'  stan'  by  the  jib-doon- 
haul. — Dinna  rise,  my  leddy :  she'll  be 
o'  the  grun'  in  anither  meenute." 

Almost  immediately  followed  a  slight 
grating  noise,  which  grew  loud,  and  be- 
fore one  could  say  her  speed  had  slack- 
ened the  cutter  rested  on  the  pebbles, 
with  the  small  waves  of  the  just-turned 
tide  flowing  against  her  quarter.  Mal- 
colm was  overboard  in  a  moment. 

"  How  the  deuce  are  we  to  land  here  ?" 
said  the  marquis. 

"Yes,"  followed  Florimel,  half  risen 
on  her  elbow,  "how  the  deuce  m-e  we  to 
land  here  ?" 

"Hoot,  my  leddy!"  said  Malcolm, 
"  sic  words  ill  become  yer  bonny  mou'." 

The  marquis  laughed. 

"  I  ask  you  how  we  are  to  get  ashore  ?" 
said  Florimel  with  grave  dignity,  though 
an  imp  was  laughing  in  the  shadows  of 
her  eyes. 

"  I'll  sune  lat  ye  see  that,  my  leddy," 
answered  Malcolm ;  and  leaning  over 
the  low  bulwark  he  had  her  in  his  arms 
almost  before  she  could  utter  an  objec- 
tion. Carrying  her  ashore  like  a  child 
— indeed,  to  steady  herself  she  had  put 
an  arm  round  his  shoulders — he  set  her 
down  on  the  shingle,  and,  turning  in  the 
act,  left  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  burden 
of  nets  and  waded  back  to  the  boat. 

"And  how,  pray,  am  I  to  go?"  asked 
the  marquis.  "Do  you  fancy  you  can 
carry  me  in  that  style  ?" 

"Ow  na,  my  lord  !  that  wadna  be  dig- 
nifeed  for  a  man.  Jist  loup  upo'  my 
back."  As  he  spoke  he  turned  his  broad 
shoulders,  stooping. 

The  marquis  accepted  the  invitation 
and  rode  ashore  like  a  schoolboy,  laugh- 
ing merrily. 

They  were  in  a  little  valley  open  only 
to  the  sea,  one  boundary  of  which  was 
the  small  promontory  whereonthe  castle 
stood.  The  side  of  it  next  them,  of  stone 
and  live  rock  combined,  rose  perpendic- 
ular from  the  beach  to  a  great  height, 
whence  to  gain  the  summit  they  had  to 
go  a  little  way  back  and  ascend  by  a 
winding  path  till  they  reached  the  ap- 
proach to  the  castle  from  the  landward 
side. 


i6o 


MALCOLM. 


"  Noo,  Tvadna  this  be  a  gran'  place  to 
bide  at,  my  lord?"  said  Malcolm  as  they 
reached  the  summit — the  marquis  breath- 
less, Florimel  fresh  as  a  lark.  "  Jist  see 
sic  an  ootluik  !  The  verra  place  for  pi- 
rates like  the  auld  Danes !  Naething 
cud  escape  the  sicht  o'  them  here.  Yon's 
the  hills  o'  Sutherlan'.  Ye  see  yon  ane 
like  a  cairn  ? — that's  a  great  freen'  to  the 
fisher-fowk  to  tell  them  whaur  they  are. 
Yon's  the  laich  co'st  o'  Caithness.  An' 
yonner's  the  North  Pole,  only  ye  canna 
see  sae  far.  Jist  think,  my  lord,  hoo 
gran'  wad  be  the  blusterin'  blap  o'  the 
win'  aboot  the  turrets  as  ye  stude  at  yer 
window  on  a  winter's  day  luikin  oot  ower 
the  gurly  twist  o'  the  watters,  the  air  fu' 
o'  flichterin  snaw,  the  cloods  a  mile  thick 
abune  yer  heid,  an'  no  a  leevin  cratur  but 
yer  ain  fovvk  nearer  nor  the  fairm-toon 
ower  the  broo  yonner  !" 

"  I  don't  see  anything  very  attractive 
in  your  description,"  said  his  lordship. 
"And  where,"  he  added,  looking  around 
him,  "would  be  the  garden  ?" 

"What  cud  ye  want  wi'  a  gairden,  an' 
the  sea  oot  afore  ye  there  ?  The  sea's 
bonnier  than  ony  gairden.  A  gairden's 
maist  aye  the  same,  or  it  changes  sae 
slow,  wi'  the  ae  flooer  gaein'  in  an'  the 
ither  flooer  comin'  oot,  'at  ye  maist  dinna 
nottice  the  odds.  But  the  sea's  never 
twa  days  the  same.  Even  lauchin',  she 
never  lauchs  twise  wi'  the  same  face,  an' 
whan  she  sulks  she  has  a  hunner  w'ys  o' 
sulkin'." 

"And  how  would  you  get  a  carriage 
up  here  ?"  said  the  marquis. 

"Fine  that,  my  lord.  There's  a  ro'd 
up  as  far's  yon  neuk.  An'  for  this  broo, 
I  wad  clear  awa  the  lowse  stanes  an'  lat 
the  nait'ral  gerse  grow  sweet  an'  fine,  an' 
turn  a  lot  o'  bonny  heelan'  sheep  on  till't. 
I  wad  keep  yon  ae  bit  o'  whuns,  for 
though  they're  rouch  i'  the  leaf  they 
blaw  sae  gowden.  Syne  I  wad  gcthcr 
a'  the  bits  o*  drains  frae  a'  sides  till  I  had 
a  bonny  stream  o'  waiter  afif  o'  the  sweet 
corn-Ian'  rowin'  doon  here  whaur  we 
Stan',  an'  ower  to  the  castel  itsel',  an' 
throu'  coort  an'  kitchie,  gurglin'  an'  rin- 
nin',  an'  syne  oot  again  an'  doon  the 
face  o'  the  scaur,  splashin'  an'  loupin' 
like  mad.     I  wad  lea'  a'  the  lave  to  Na- 


tur'  hersel'.  It  wad  be  a  gran'  place, 
my  lord  !  An'  whan  ye  was  tired  o'  't 
ye  cud  jist  rin  awa'  to  Lossie  Hoose  an' 
hide  ye  i'  the  how  there  for  a  cheenge. 
I  wad  like  fine  to  hae  the  sortin'  o'  't  for 
yer  lordship." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  the  marquis. 

"  Let's  find  a  nice  place  for  our  lunch- 
eon, papa,  and  then  we  can  sit  down  and 
hear  Malcolm's  story,"  said  Florimel. 

"  Dinna  ye  think,  my  lord,  it  wad  be 
better  to  get  the  baskets  up  first?"  in- 
terposed Malcolm. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Wilson  can  help 
you." 

"Na,  my  lord  :  he  canna  lea'  the  cut- 
ter. The  tide's  risin',  an'  she's  ower  near 
the  rocks." 

"  Well,  well !  we  sha'n't  want  lunch 
for  an  hour  yet,  so  you  can  take  your 
time." 

"  But  ye  maun  tak  tent,  my  lord,  hoo 
ye  gang  amo'  the  ruins.  There's  awk- 
ward kin'  o'  holes  aboot  thae  vouts,  an' 
jist  whaur  ye  think  there's  nane.  1  din- 
na a'thegither  like  yer  gaein*  wantin' 
me." 

"  Nonsense  !  Go  along,"  said  the  mar- 
quis. 

"But  I'm  no  jokin',"  persisted  Mal- 
colm. 

"Yes,  yes,  we'll  be  careful,"  returned 
his  master  impatiently,  and  Malcolm  ran 
down  the  hill,  but  not  altogether  satisfied 
with  the  assurance. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

THE   DEIL'S   WINNOCK. 

Florimel  was  disappointed,  for  she 
longed  to  hear  Malcolm's  tale.  But 
amid  such  surroundings  it-  was  not  so 
very  difficult  to  wait.  They  set  out  to 
have  a  peep  at  the  ruins  and  choose  a 
place  for  luncheon. 

From  the  point  where  they  stood,  look- 
ing seaward,  the  ground  sunk  to  the  nar- 
row isthmus  supposed  by  Malcolm  to  fill 
a  cleft  formerly  crossed  by  a  drawbridge, 
and  beyond  it  rose  again  to  the  grassy 
mounds  in  which  lay  so  many  of  the  old 
bones  of  the  ruined  carcass. 

Passing  along  the  isthmus,  where  on 


MALCOLM. 


i6i 


one  side  was  a  steep  descent  to  the  shore 
of  the  little  bay,  and  on  the  other  the  live 
rock  hewn  away  to  a  wall  shining  and 
sparkling  with  crj'Stals  of  a  clear  irony 
brown,  they  next  clambered  up  a  rude 
ascent  of  solid  rock,  and  so  reached 
what  had  been  the  centre  of  the  sea- 
ward portion  of  the  castle.  Here  they 
came  suddenly  upon  a  small  hole  at 
their  feet,  going  right  down.  Florimel 
knelt,  and  peeping  in  saw  the  remains 
of  a  small  spiral  stair.  The  opening 
seemed  large  enough  to  let  her  through, 
and,  gathering  her  garments  tight  about 
her,  she  was  halfway  buried  in  the  earth 
before  her  father,  whose  attention  had 
been  drawn  elsewhere,  saw  what  she  was 
about.  He  thought  she  had  fallen  in,  but 
her  meny  laugh  reassured  him,  and  ere 
he  could  reach  her  she  had  screwed  her- 
self out  of  sight.  He  followed  her  in 
some  anxiety,  but  after  a  short  descent 
rejoined  her  in  a  small  vaulted  cham- 
ber, where  she  stood  looking  from  the 
little  square  window  Malcolm  had  point- 
ed out  to  them  as  they  neared  the  shore. 
The  bare  walls  around  them  were  of 
brown  stone,  wet  with  the  drip  of  rains, 
and  full  of  holes  where  the  mortar  had 
yielded  and  stones  had  fallen  out.  In- 
deed, the  mortar  had  all  but  vanished : 
the  walls  stood  and  the  vaults  hung 
ch  iefly  by  their  own  weight.  By  breaches 
in  the  walls,  where  once  might  have  been 
doors,  Florimel  passed  from  one  cham- 
ber to  another  and  another,  each  dark, 
brown,  vaulted,  damp  and  weather-eaten, 
while  her  father  stood  at  the  little  window 
she  had  left,  listlessly  watching  the  two 
men  on  the  beach  far  below  landing  the 
lunch,  and  the  rippled  sea,  and  the  cutter 
rising  and  falling  with  every  wave  of  the 
flowing  tide. 

At  length  Florimel  found  herself  on 
the  upper  end  of  a  steep-sloping  ridge  of 
hard,  smooth  earth  lying  along  the  side 
of  one  chamber,  and  leading  across  to 
yet  another  beyond,  which,  unlike  the 
rest,  was  full  of  light.  The  passion  of 
exploration  being  by  this  time  thoroughly 
roused  in  her,  she  descended  the  slope, 
half  sliding,  half  creeping.  When  she 
thus  reached  the  hole  into  the  bright 
chamber,  she  almost  sickened  with  hor- 


ror, for  the  slope  went  off  steeper,  till  it 
rushed,  as  it  were,  out  of  a  huge  gap  in 
the  wall  of  the  castle,  laying  bare  the 
void  of  space  and  the  gleam  of  the  sea 
at  a  frightful  depth  below :  if  she  had 
gone  one  foot  farther  she  could  not  have 
saved  herself  from  sliding  out  of  the  gap. 
It  was  the  very  breach  Malcolm  had 
pointed  out  to  them  from  below,  and 
concerning  which  he  had  promised  them 
the  terrible  tale.  She  gave  a  shriek  of 
terror  and  laid  hold  of  the  broken  wall. 
To  heighten  her  dismay  to  the  limit  of 
mortal  endurance,  she  found  at  the  very 
first  effort  —  partly,  no  doubt,  from  the 
paralysis  of  fear — that  it  was  impossible 
to  reascend ;  and  there  she  lay  on  the 
verge  of  the  steep  slope,  her  head  and 
shoulders  in  the  inner  of  the  two  cham- 
bers, and  the  rest  of  her  body  in  the 
outer,  with  the  hideous  vacancy  staring 
at  her.  In  a  few  moments  it  had  fas- 
cinated her  so  that  she  dared  not  close 
her  eyes  lest  it  should  leap  upon  her. 
The  wonder  was  that  she  did  not  lose 
her  consciousness,  and  fall  at  once  to  the 
bottom  of  the  cliff. 

Her  cry  brought  her  father  in  terror  to 
the  top  of  the  slope. 

"Are  you  hurt,  child?"  he  cried,  not 
seeing  the  danger  she  was  in. 

"It's  so  steep  I  can't  get  up  again," 
she  said  faintly. 

"I'll  soon  get  you  up,"  he  returned 
cheerily,  and  began  to  descend. 

"Oh,  papa!"  she  cried,  "don't  come 
a  step  nearer.  If  you  should  slip,  we 
should  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  rock  to- 
gether. Indeed,  indeed,  there  is  great 
danger.     Do  run  for  Malcolm." 

Thoroughly  alarmed,  yet  mastering 
the  signs  of  his  fear,  he  enjoined  her  to 
keep  perfectly  still  while  he  was  gone, 
and  hurried  to  the  little  window.  Thence 
he  shouted  to  the  men  below,  but  in  vain, 
for  the  wind  prevented  his  voice  from 
reaching  them.  He  rushed  from  the 
vaults,  and  began  to  descend  at  the  first 
practical  spot  he  could  find,  shouting  as 
he  went. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  cheered  Flori- 
mel a  little  as  she  lay  forsaken  in  her 
misery.  Her  whole  effort  now  was  to 
keep  herself  from  fainting,  and  for  this 


l62 


MALCOLM. 


end  to  abstract  her  mind  from  the  terrors 
of  her  situation :  in  this  she  was  aided 
by  a  new  shock,  which,  had  her  position 
been  a  less  critical  one,  would  itself  have 
caused  her  a  deadly  dismay.  A  curious 
little  sound  came  to  her,  apparently  from 
somewhere  in  the  quite  dusky  chamber 
in  which. her  head  lay.  She  fancied  it 
made  by  some  little  animal,  and  thought 
of  the  wild-cats  and  otters  of  which  Mal- 
colm had  spoken  as  haunting  the  caves ; 
but  while  the  new  fear  mitigated  the  for- 
mer, the  greater  fear  subdued  the  less. 
It  came  a  little  louder,  then  again  a  little 
louder,  growing  like  a  hurried  whisper, 
but  without  seeming  to  approach  her. 
Louder  still  it  grew,  and  yet  was  but  an 
inarticulate  whispering.  Then  it  began 
to  divide  into  some  resemblance  of  ar- 
ticulate sounds.  Presently,  to  her  utter 
astonishment,  she  heard  herself  called 
by  name. 

"  Lady  Florimel !  Lady  Florimel !"  said 
the  sound  plainly  enough. 

"Who's  there  ?"  she  faltered,  with  her 
heart  in  her  throat,  hardly  knowing 
whether  she  spoke  or  not. 

"There's  nobody  here,"  answered  the 
voice.  "I'm  in  my  own  bedroom  at 
home,  where  your  dog  killed  mine." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Catanach,  but 
both  words  and  tone  were  almost  Eng- 
Hsh. 

Anger  and  the  sense  of  a  human  pres- 
ence, although  an  evil  one,  restored  Lady 
Florimel's  speech.  "  How  dare  you  talk 
such  nonsense?"  she  said. 

"  Don't  anger  me  again,"  returned  the 
voice.  "  I  tell  you  the  truth.  I'm  sorry 
I  spoke  to  your  ladyship  as  I  did  this 
morning.  It  was  the  sight  of  my  poor 
dog  that  drove  me  ma'd." 

"/  couldn't  help  it.  I  tried  to  keep 
mine  off  him,  as  you  know." 

"I  do  know  it,  my  lady,  and  that's 
why  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Then  there's  nothing  more  to  be 
said." 

"Yes,  there  is,  my  lady:  I  want  to 
make  you  some  amends.  I  know  more 
than  most  people,  and  I  know  a  secret 
that  some  would  give  their  ears  for.  Will 
■  you  trust  me  ?" 

"  I  will  hear  what  you've  got  to  say." 


"Well,  I  don't  care  whether  you  be- 
lieve me  or  not :  I  shall  tell  you  nothing 
but  the  truth.  What  do  you  think  of 
Malcolm  MacPhail,  my  lady?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  asking  me 
such  a  question  ?" 

"Only  to  tell  you  that  by  birth  he  is  a 
gentleman,  and  comes  of  an  old  family." 

"But  why  do  you  tell  me?''  said  Lady 
Florimel.  "What  have  /  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  Nothing,  my  lady — or  himself  either. 
/  hold  the  handle  of  the  business.  But 
you  needn't  think  it's  from  any  favor 
for  him.  I  don't  care  what  comes  of 
him.  There's  no  love  lost  between  him 
and  me.  You  heard  yourself,  this  very 
day,  how  he  abused  both  me  and  my 
poor  dog  who  is  now  lying  dead  on  the 
bed  beside  me." 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  believe  such 
nonsense  as  that  ?"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

There  was  no  reply.  The  voice  had 
departed,  and  the  terrors  of  her  position 
returned  with  gathered  force  in  the  des- 
olation of  redoubled  silence  that  closes 
around  an  unanswered  question.  A 
trembling  seized  her,  and  she  could 
hardly  persuade  herself  that  she  was 
not  slipping  by  slow  inches  down  the  in- 
cline. 

Minutes  that  seemed  hours  passed. 
At  length  she  heard  feet  and  voices,  and 
presently  her  father  called  her  name,  but 
she  was  too  agitated  to  reply  except  with 
a  moan.  A  voice  she  was  yet  more  glad 
to  hear  followed — the  voice  of  Malcolm, 
ringing  confident  and  clear. 

"Haud  awa',  my  lord,"  it  said,  "an* 
lat  me  come  at  her." 

"You're  not  going  down  so  ?"  said  the 
marquis  angrily.  "You'll  slip  to  a  cer- 
tainty, and  send  her  to  the  bottom." 

"My  lord,"  returned  Malcolm,  "I  ken 
what  I'm  aboot,  an'  ye  dinna.  I  bog  'at 
ye'll  haud  ootby,  an'  no  upset  the  lassie, 
for  something  maun  depen'  upon  hersel'. 
Jist  gang  awa'  back  into  that  ither  vout, 
my  lord.     I  insist  upo'  't." 

His  lordship  obeyed,  and  Malcolm, 
who  had  been  pulling  off  his  boots  as 
he  spoke,  now  addressed  Mair.  "  Here, 
Peter,"  he  said,  "haud  on  to  the  tail  o' 
that  rope  like  grim  dcith.     Na,  I  dinna 


MALCOLM. 


163 


want  it  roon'  me :  it's  to  gang  roon'  her. 
But  dinna  ye  haul,  for  it  micht  hurt  her, 
an'  she'll  lippen  to  me  and  come  up  o' 
hersel'.  Dinna  be  feart,  my  bonny  led- 
dy :  there's  nae  danger — no  ae  grain. 
I'm  comin'." 

With  the  rope  in  his  hand  he  walked 
down  the  incline,  and  kneeling  by  Flori- 
mel,  close  to  the  broken  wall,  proceeded 
to  pass  the  rope  under  and  round  her 
waist,  talking  to  her,  as  he  did  so,  in  the 
tone  of  one  encouraging  a  child. 

"Noo,  my  leddy  !  noo,  my  bonny  led- 
dy  !  Ae  meenute,  an"  ye're  as  safe's  gien 
ye  lay  i'  yer  minnie's  lap." 

"  I  daren't  get  up,  Malcolm  :  I  daren't 
turn  my  back  to  it.  I  shall  drop  right 
down  into  it  if  I  do,"  she  faltered,  be- 
ginning to  sob. 

"  Nae  fear  o'  that.  There  !  ye  canna 
fa'  noo,  for  Blue  Peter  has  the  ither  en', 
an'  Peter  's  as  strong  's  twa  pownies. 
I'm  gaein'  to  tak  aff  yer  shune  neist." 

So  saying,  he  lowered  himself  a  little 
through  the  breach,  holding  on  by  the 
broken  wall  with  one  hand,  while  he 
gently  removed  her  sandal  shoes  with 
the  other.  Drawing  himself  up  again, 
he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  taking  her  hand, 
said,  "Noo,  my  leddy,  tak  a  guid  grip  o' 
my  han',  an'  as  I  lift  ye,  gie  a  scram'le 
wi'  yer  twa  bit  feet,  an'  as  sune's  ye  fin' 
them  aneth  ye,  jist  gang  up  as  gien  ye 
war  clim'in'  a  gey  stey  brae  [rather  steep 
ascent).  Ye  cudna  fa'  gien  ye  tried  yer 
warst." 

At  the  grasp  of  his  strong  arm  the  girl 
felt  a  great  gush  of  confidence  rise  in 
her  heart :  she  did  exactly  as  he  told 
her,  scrambled  to  her  feet,  and  walked 
up  the  slippery  way  without  one  slide, 
holding  fast  by  Malcolm's  hand,  while 
Joseph  kept  just  feeling  her  waist  with 
the  loop  of  the  rope  as  he  drew  it  in. 
When  she  reached  the  top  she  fell,  al- 
most fainting,  into  her  father's  arms,  but 
was  recalled  to  herself  by  an  exclama- 
tion from  Blue  Peter :  just  as  Malcolm 
relinquished  her  hand  his  foot  slipped. 
But  he  slid  down  the  side  of  the  mound 
only — some  six  or  seven  feet  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  chamber,  whence  his  voice 
came  cheerily,  saying  he  would  be  with 
them  in  a  moment.     When,  however. 


ascending  by  another  way,  he  rejoined 
them,  they  were  shocked  to  see  blood 
pouring  from  his  foot :  he  had  lighted 
amongst  broken  glass,  and  had  felt  a 
sting,  but  only  now  was  aware  that  the 
cut  was  a  serious  one.  He  made  little 
of  it,  however,  bound  it  up,  and,  as  the 
marquis  would  not  now  hear  of  bringing 
the  luncheon  to  the  top,  having,  he  said, 
had  more  than  enough  of  the  place, 
limped  painfully  after  them  down  to  the 
shore. 

Knowing  whither  they  were  bound, 
and  even  better  acquainted  with  the 
place  than  IMalcolm  himself,  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach,  the  moment  she  had  drawn  down 
her  blinds  in  mourning  for  her  dog,  had 
put  her  breakfast  in  her  pocket  and  set 
out  from  her  back  door,  contriving  mis- 
chief on  her  way.  Arrived  at  the  castle, 
she  waited  a  long  time  before  they  made 
their  appearance,  but  was  rewarded  for 
her  patience,  as  she  said  to  herself,  by 
the  luck  which  had  so  wonderfully  sec- 
onded her  cunning.  From  a  broken 
loophole  in  the  foundation  of  a  round 
tower  she  now  watched  them  go  down 
the  hill.  The  moment  they  were  out  of 
sight  she  crept  like  a  fox  from  his  earth, 
and  having  actually  crawled  beyond 
danger  of  discovery,  hurried  away  in- 
land, to  reach  Portlossie  by  footpaths 
and  byways,  and  there  show  herself  on 
her  own  doorstep. 

The  woman's  consuming  ambition 
was  to  possess  power  oz'er  others — pow- 
er to  hurt  them  if  she  chose — power  to 
pull  hidden  strings  fastened  to  their 
hearts  or  consciences  or  history  or  foi- 
bles or  crimes,  and  so  reduce  them,  in 
her  knowledge,  if  not  in  theirs,  to  the 
condition  of  being  more  or  less  her 
slaves.  Hence  she  pounced  upon  a  se- 
cret as  one  would  on  a  diamond  in  the 
dust :  any  fact  even  was  precious,  for  it 
might  be  allied  to  some  secret — might,  - 
in  combination  with  other  facts,  become 
potent.  How  far  this  vice  may  have 
had  its  origin  in  the  fact  that  she  had 
secrets  of  her  own,  might  be  an  interest- 
ing question. 

As  to  the  mysterious  communication 
she  had  made  to  her.  Lady  Florimcl  was 
not  able  to  turn  her  mind  to  it,  nor  in- 


164 


MALCOLM. 


deed  for  some  time  was  she  able  to  think 
of  anything. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 
THE  CLOUDED  SAPPHIRES. 

Before  they  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  hill,  however,  Florimel  had  recover- 
ed her  spirits  a  little,  and  had  even  at- 
tempted a  laugh  at  the  ridiculousness  of 
her  late  situation,  but  she  continued  very 
pale.  They  sat  down  beside  the  baskets 
on  some  great  stones  fallen  from  the 
building  above.  Because  of  his  foot, 
they  would  not  allow  Malcolm  to  serve 
them,  but  told  Mair  and  him  to  have 
their  dinner  near,  and  called  the  former 
when  they  wanted  anything. 

Lady  Florimel  revived  still  more  after 
she  had  had  a  morsel  of  partridge  and  a 
glass  of  wine,  but  every  now  and  then 
she  shuddered :  evidently  she  was  haunt- 
ed by  the  terror  of  her  late  position,  and, 
with  the  gladness  of  a  discoverer,  the 
marquis  bethought  himself  of  Malcolm's 
promised  tale  as  a  means  of  turning  her 
thoughts  aside  from  it.  As  soon,  there- 
fore, as  they  had  finished  their  meal,  he 
called  Malcolm  and  told  him  they  want- 
ed his  story. 

"  It's  some  fearsome,"  said  Malcolm, 
looking  anxiously  at  the  pale  face  of 
Lady  Florimel. 

"  Nonsense  !"  returned  the  marquis,  for 
he  thought,  and  perhaps  rightly,  that  if 
such  it  would  only  serve  his  purpose  the 
better. 

"1  wad  raither  tell  't  i'  the  gloamin' 
roon'  a  winter  fire,"  said  Malcolm,  with 
another  anxious  look  at  Lady  Florimel. 

"  Do  go  on,"  she  said  :  "  I  want  so 
much  to  hear  it !" 

"Go  on,"  said  the  marquis;  and  Mal- 
colm, seating  himself  near  them,  began. 

I  need  not  again  tell  my  reader  that 
he  may  take  a  short  cut  if  he  pleases. 

"There  was  ance  a  great  nobleman — 
like  ycrsel',  my  lord,  only  no  sae  douce 
— an'  he  had  a  great  followin',  and  was 
thoucht  muckle  o'  in  a'  the  country  frae 
John  o'  Grot's  to  the  Mull  o'  Gallowa'. 
But  he  was  terrible  prood,  an'  thoucht 


naebody  was  to  compare  wi'  him,  nor 
onything  'at  onybody  had  to  compare 
wi'  onything  'at  he  had.  His  horse  war 
aye  swifter  an'  his  kye  aye  better  milkers 
nor  ither  fowk's ;  there  war  nae  deer  sae 
big  nor  had  sic  muckle  horns  as  the  reid 
deer  on  his  heelan'  hills ;  nae  gillies  sae 
Strang's  his  gillies ;  and  nae  castles  sae 
weel  biggit  or  sae  auld  as  his.  It  may 
ha'  been  a'  verra  true  for  onything  I  ken, 
or  onything  the  story  says  to  the  con- 
trar' ;  but  it  wasna  heumble  or  Christi- 
an-like o'  him  to  be  aye  at  it,  ower  an' 
ower,  aye  gloryin',  as  gien  he  had  a'thing 
sae  by-ord'nar'  'cause  he  was  by-ord'nar' 
himsel',  an'  they  a'  cam  till  him  by  the 
verra  natur'  o'  things.  There  was  but 
ae  thing  in  which  he  was  na  fawvored, 
and  that  was  that  he  had  nae  son  to  tak 
up  what  he  left.  But  it  maittered  the 
less  that  the  teetle  as  weel's  the  lan's 
wad,  as  the  tale  tells,  gang  a'  the  same 
till  a  lass-bairn — an'  a  lass-bairn  he  had." 

"  That  is  the  case  in  the  Lossie  family," 
said  the  marquis. 

"That's  hoo  I  hae  hard  the  tale,  my 
lord,  but  I  wad  be  sorry  sud  a'  it  con- 
teens  meet  wi'  like  corroboration.  As  I 
say,  a  dochter  there  was,  an'  gien  a'  was 
surpassin'  she  was  surpassin'  a'.  The 
faimily  piper,  or  sennachy,  as  they  ca'd 
him — I  wadna  wonner,  my  lord,  gien 
thae  gran'  pipes  yer  boonty  gae  my 
gran'father  had  been  his — he  said  in  ane 
o'  his  sangs  'at  the  sun  blinkit  whan- 
ever  she  shawed  hersel'  at  the  hoose- 
door.  I  s'  warran'  ae  thing — 'at  a'  the 
lads  blinkit  whan  she  luikit  at  them,  gien 
sae  be  she  cud  ever  be  said  to  conde- 
scen'  sae  far  as  to  luik  at  ony  ;  for  gien 
ever  she  set  ee  upo'  ane,  she  never  loot 
it  rist :  her  ee  aye  jist  slippit  ower  a  face 
as  gien  the  face  micht  or  micht  not  be 
there — she  didna  ken  or  care.  A'body 
said  she  had  sic  a  hauchty  leuk  as  was 
never  seen  on  human  face  afore  ;  an'  for 
freen'ly  luik,  she  had  nane  for  leevin' 
cratur,  'cep'  it  was  her  ain  father  or  her 
ain  horse  'at  she  rade  upo*.  Her  mither 
was  deid. 

"Her  father  wad  fain  hae  seen  her 
merriet  afore  he  dee'd,  but  the  pride  he 
had  gien  her  was  like  to  be  the  en'  o'  a', 
for  she  coontit  it  naething  less  than  a 


MALCOLM. 


165 


disgrace  to  pairt  wi'  maiden  leeberty. 
'  There's  no  man,'  she  wad  say  whan  her 
father  wad  be  pressin'  upo'  the  subjec' 
— '  there's  no  mortal  man  but  yersel' 
worth  the  turn  o'  my  ee.'  An'  the  father, 
puir  man !  was  ower  weel  pleased  wi* 
the  flattery  to  be  sae  angr)'  wi'  her  as  he 
wad  fain  hae  luikit.  Sae  time  gaed  on 
till  frae  a  bonny  lassie  she  had  grown  a 
gran'  leddy,  an'  cud  win  up  the  hill  nae 
forder,  but  bude  to  gang  doon  o'  the  ither 
side ;  an'  her  father  was  jist  near-han' 
daft  wi'  anxiety  to  see  her  wad.  But  no, 
never  ane  wad  she  hearken  till. 

"  At  last  there  cam  to  the  hoose — that's 
Colonsay  Castel  up  there — ae  day,  a 
yoong  man  frae  Norrowa',  the  son  o'  a 
great  nobleman  o'  that  country ;  an'  wi' 
him  she  was  some  ta'en.  He  was  a  fine 
man  to  leuk  at,  an'  he  pat  them  a'  to 
shame  at  onything  that  nott  stren'th  or 
skeel.  But  he  was  as  heumble  as  he 
was  fit,  an'  never  teuk  ony  credit  till 
himsel'  for  onything  'at  he  did  or  was ; 
an'  this  she  was  ill-pleased  wi',  though 
she  cudna  help  likin'  him,  an'  made  nae 
banes  o'  lattin'  him  see  'at  he  wasna  a'- 
thegither  a  scunner  till  her. 

"Weel,  ae  mornin'  verra  ear'  she  gaed 
oot  intill  her  gairden  an'  luikit  ower  the 
hedge ;  an'  what  sud  she  see  but  this 
same  yoong  nobleman  tak  the  bairn  frae 
a  puir  traivelin'  body,  help  her  ower  a 
dyke,  and  gie  her  her  bairn  again  ?  He 
was  at  her  ain  side  in  anither  meen- 
ute,  but  he  was  jist  that  meenute  ahint 
his  tryst,  an'  she  was  in  a  cauld  rage  at 
him.  He  tried  to  turn  her  hert,  sayin' 
wad  she  hae  had  him  no  help  the  puir 
thing  ower  the  dyke,  her  bairnie  bein' 
but  a  fortnicht  auld  an'  hersel'  unco 
weak-like  ?  but  my  lady  made  a  mou' 
as  gien  she  was  scunnert  to  hear  sic 
things  made  mention  o'.  An'  was  she 
to  Stan'  luikin'  ower  the  hedge  an'  him 
convoyin'  a  beggar-wife  an'  her  brat? 
An'  syne  to  come  to  her  ohn  ever  wash- 
en  his  ban's !  '  Hoot,  my  leddy  !'  says 
he, '  the  puir  thing  was  a  human  cratur.' 
'  Gien  she  had  been  a  God's  angel,'  says 
she, '  ye  had  no  richt  to  keep  me  waitin'.' 
'  Gien  she  had  been  an  angel,'  says  he, 
'  there  wad  hae  been  little  occasion,  but 
the  wuman  stude  in  wand  o'  help.'    '  Gien 


't  had  been  to  save  her  life,  ye  sudna  hae 
keepit  me  waitin','  says  she.  The  lad 
was  scaret  at  that,  as  weel  he  micht,  an' 
takin'  aff  's  bannet  he  lowtit  laich  an' 
left  her.  But  this  didna  shuit  my  leddy : 
she  wasna  to  be  left  afore  she  said  Gang. 
Sae  she  cried  him  back,  an'  he  cam, 
bannet  in  han' ;  an'  she  leuch,  an'  made 
as  gien  she  had  been  but  tryin'  the  smed- 
dum  o'  'm,  an'  thoucht  him  a  true  k-nicht. 
The  puir  fallow  pluckit  up  at  this,  an' 
doon  he  fell  upo  's  k-nees,  an'  oot  wi'  a' 
was  in  's  hert — hoo  'at  he  lo'ed  her  mair 
nor  tongue  cud  tell,  an'  gien  she  wad 
hae  him  he  wad  be  her  slave  for  ever, 

'"Ye  s'  be  that,"  says  she,  an'  leuch 
him  to  scorn.  '  Gang  efter  yer  beggar- 
wife,'  she  says  :  '  I'm  sick  o'  ye.' 

"He  rase,  an'  teuk  up  's  bannet,  an' 
loupit  the  hedge,  an'  gae  a  blast  upo'  's 
horn,  an'  gethered  his  men,  an'  steppit 
aboord  his  boat,  owar  by  Puffie  Held 
yonner,  an'  awa'  to  Norrowa'  ower  the 
faem,  an'  was  never  hard  tell  o'  in  Scot- 
Ian'  again.  An'  the  leddy  was  haucht- 
ier  and  cairried  her  heid  heicher  nor 
ever  —  maybe  to  hide  a  scaum  [slight 
mark  of  burning)  she  had  taen,  for  a' 
her  pride. 

"Sae  things  gaed  on  as  afore  till  at 
len'th  the  tide  o'  her  time  was  weel  past 
the  turn,  an'  a  streak  o'  the  snaw  in  her 
coal-black  hair.  For,  as  the  auld  sang 
says.  Her  hair  was  like  the  craw.  An' 
her  ble  was  like  the  snaw,  An'  her  bow- 
bendit  lip  Was  like  the  rose-hip,  An'  her 
ee  was  like  the  licht'nin'.  Glorious  an' 
fricht'nin'.    But  a'  that  wad  sunc  be  ower. 

"Aboot  this  time,  ae  day  i'  the  gloam- 
in',  there  cam  on  sic'  an  awfu'  storm  'at 
the  fowk  o'  the  castel  war  frichtit  'maist 
oot  o'  their  wits.  The  licht'nin'  cam  oot 
o'  the  yerd,  an'  no  frae  the  lift  at  a' ;  the 
win'  roared  as  gien  't  had  been  an  in- 
carnat  rage ;  the  thunner  rattlet  an' 
crackit  as  gien  the  mune  an'  a'  the  stars 
had  been  made  kettledrums  o'  for  the 
occasion ;  but  never  a  drap  o'  rain  or  a 
stane  o'  hail  fell :  naething  brak  oot  but 
blue  licht  an'  roarin'  win'.  But  the 
strangest  thing  was,  that  the  sea  lay  a' 
the  time  as  oonconcerned  as  a  sleepin' 
bairn  ;  the  win'  got  nae  mair  grip  o'  't 
nor  gien  a'  the  angels  had  been  poorin' 


i66 


MALCOLM. 


ile  oot  o'  widows'  cruses  upo'  't ;  the 
verra  tide  came  up  quaieter  nor  ord'nar; 
and  the  fowk  war  sair  perplext,  as  weel 
's  frichtit. 

"  Jist  as  the  clock  o'  the  castel  chappit 
the  deid  o'  the  nicht  the  clamor  o*  v'ices 
was  hard  throu'  the  thunner  an'  the  win', 
an'  the  warder,  luikin'  doon  frae  the 
heich  bartizan  o'  the  muckle  tooer,  saw, 
i'  the  fire-flauchts,  a  company  o'  riders 
appro'chin'  the  castel  —  a'  upo'  gran' 
horses,  he  said,  that  sprang  this  gait  an' 
that,  an'  shot  fire  frae  their  een.  At  the 
drawbrig  they  blew  a  horn  'at  rowtit  like 
a'  the  bulls  o'  Bashan,  an',  whan  the 
warder  challencht  them,  claimt  hoose- 
room  for  the  nicht.  Naebody  had  ever 
hard  o'  the  place  they  cam  frae — it  was 
sae  far  awa  'at  as  sune  's  a  body  hard 
the  name  o'  't  he  forgot  it  again — but 
their  beasts  war  as  fresh  an'  as  fu'  o' 
smeddum  as  I  tell  ye,  an'  no  a  hair  o' 
ane  o'  them  turnt.  There  was  jist  a 
de'il's  dizzen  o'  them,  an'  whaurever  ye 
began  to  coont  them  the  thirteent  had 
aye  a  reid  baird. 

"Whan  the  news  was  taen  to  the  mar- 
kis — the  yerl,  I  sud  say — he  gae  orders 
to  lat  them  in  at  ance ;  for  whatever 
fau'ts  he  had,  naither  fear  nor  hainin' 
[petiiifiotisfiess)  was  amang  them.  Sae 
in  they  cam,  clatterin'  ower  the  draw- 
brig,  'at  gaed  up  an'  down  aneth  them 
as  gien  it  wad  hae  cast  them. 

"  Richt  fremt  [stra/ige)  fowk  they  luikit 
whan  they  cam  intill  the  coortyaird — a' 
spanglet  wi'  bonny  bricht  stanes  o'  a' 
colors.  They  war  like  nae  fowk  'at  ever 
the  yerl  had  seen,  an'  he  had  been  to 
Jeroozlem  in  's  day,  an'  had  fouchten  wi' 
the  Saracenes.  But  they  war  coorteous 
men  an'  weel -bred — an'  maistly  weel- 
faured  tu — ilk  ane  luikin'  a  lord's  son  at 
the  least.  They  had  na  a  single  servin'- 
man  wi'  them,  an'  wad  alloo  nane  o'  the 
fowk  aboot  the  place  to  lay  han'  upo' 
their  beasts ;  an'  ilk  ane  as  he  said  7Ta 
wad  gie  the  stallion  aneth  him  a  daig 
wi'  's  spurs,  or  a  kick  i'  the  ribs  gien  he 
was  afif  o'  's  back  wi'  the  steel  tae  o'  his 
bute ;  an'  the  brute  wad  lay  his  lugs  i' 
the  how  o'  's  neck  an'  turn  his  heid 
asklent,  wi'  ae  white  ee  gleyin'  oot  o'  't, 
an'  lift  a  hin'  leg  wi'  the  glintin'  shoe 


turnt  back,  an'  luik  like  Sawtan  himsel' 
whan  he  daurna. 

"Weel,  my  lord  an'  my  leddy  war  sit- 
tin'  i'  the  muckle  ha' — for  they  cudna 
gang  to  their  beds  in  sic  a  by-ous  storm 
— whan  him  'at  was  the  chief  o'  them 
was  ushered  in  by  the  seneschal — that's 
the  steward,  like — booin'  afore  him,  an' 
ca'in'  him  the  prence,  an'  nae  mair,  for 
he  cudna  min'  the  name  o'  's  place  lang 
eneuch  to  say  't  ower  again. 

"An'  sae  a  prence  he  was;  an',  for- 
bye  that,  jist  a  man  by  himsel'  to  luik  at 
— i'  the  prime  o'  life  maybe,  but  no  free- 
ly i'  the  first  o'  't,  for  he  had  the  luik  as 
gien  he  had  had  a  hard  time  o'  't,  an' 
had  a  white  streak  an'  a  craw's  fit  here 
and  there — the  liklier  to  please  my  leddy, 
wha  luikit  doon  upo'  a'body  yoonger  nor 
hersel'.  He  had  a  commandin',  maybe 
some  owerbeirin',.luik — ane  'at  a  man 
micht  hae  birstled  up  at,  but  a  leddy  like 
my  leddy  wad  welcome  as  worth  bring- 
in'  doon.  He  was  dressed  as  never  man 
had  appeart  in  Scotlan'  afore,  glorious 
withoot — no  like  the  leddy  i'  the  Psalms, 
for  yer  ee  cud  licht  nowhaur  but  there 
was  the  glitter  o'  a  stane,  sae  'at  he  flash- 
ed a"  ower  ilka  motion  he  made.  He 
cairriet  a  short  swoord  at  his  side,  no 
muckle  langer  nor  my  daddy's  dirk,  as 
gien  he  never  foucht  but  at  closs  quar- 
ters; the  whilk  had  three  sapphires — 
blue  stanes,  they  tell  me,  an'  muckle 
anes — lowin'  i'  the  sheath  o'  't,  an'  a 
muckler  ane  still  i'  the  heft ;  only  they 
war  some  drumly  {clouded),  the  leddy 
thoucht,  bein'  a  jeedge  o'  hingars-at-lugs 
[earrmgs)  an'  sic  vainities. 

"That  may  be  's  it  may;  but  in  cam 
the  prence,  wi'  a  laich  boo  an'  a  gran' 
upstrauchtin'  again;  an'  though,  as  I  say, 
he  was  flashin'  a'  ower,  his  mainner  was 
quaiet  as  the  munelicht — jist  grace  itsel'. 
He  profest  himsel  unco'  indcbtit  for  the 
shelter  accordit  him ;  an  his  een  aye 
soucht  the  leddy's,  an'  his  admiration  o' 
her  was  plain  in  ilka  luik  an'  gestur',  an' 
though  his  words  were  feow  they  a'  meant 
mair  nor  they  said.  Afore  his  supper 
cam  in  her  hert  was  at  his  wull. 

"  They  say  that  whan  a  wuman's  latt 
o'  fa'in  in  love — yc'll  ken,  my  lord :  I 
ken  nacthing  aboot  it — it's  the  mair  likly 


MALCOLM. 


167 


to  be  an  oonrizzonin'  an'  ooncontrolla- 
ble  fancy :  in  sic  maitters  it  seems  wis- 
dom comesna  wi'  gray  hairs.  Within 
ae  hoor  the  leddy  was  enamored  o'  the 
strainger  in  a  fearfu'  w'y.  She  poored 
cot  his  wine  till  him  wi'  her  ain  han',  an' 
the  moment  he  put  the  glaiss  till  's  lips 
the  win'  fell  an'  the  lichtnin'  devallt 
[ceased).  She  set  hersel'  to  put  ques- 
tons  till  him,  sic  as  she  thoucht  he  wad 
like  to  answer — a'  aboot  himsel'  an'  what 
he  had  come  throu'.  An'  sic  stories  as 
he  tellt !  She  atten't  till  him  as  she  had 
never  dune  to  guest  afore,  an'  her  father 
saw  'at  she  was  sair  taen  wi'  the  man. 
But  he  wasna  a'thegither  sae  weel  pleased, 
for  there  was  something  aboot  him — he 
cudna  say  what — 'at  garred  him  grue 
[shudder').  He  wasna  a  man  to  hae 
fancies  or  stan'  upo'  freits,  but  he  cudna 
help  the  creep  that  gaed  doon  his  back- 
bane  ilka  time  his  ee  encoontert  that  o' 
the  prence :  it  was  aye  sic  a  strange  luik 
the  prence  cuist  upon  him — a  luik  as 
gien  him  an'  the  yerl  had  been  a'ready 
ower  weel  acquaint,  though  the  yerl  cud- 
na min'  'at  ever  he  had  set  ee  upo'  him. 
A'  the  time,  hooever,  he  had  a  kin'  o'  a 
suspicion  'at  they  bade  to  be  auld  ac- 
quaintances, an'  sair  he  soucht  to  mak 
him  oot,  but  the  prence  wad  never  lat  a 
body  get  a  glimp  o'  his  een  'cep'  the 
body  he  was  speykin'  till ;  that  is,  gien 
he  cud  help  it,  for  the  yerl  did  get  twa 
or  three  glimps  o'  them  as  he  spak  till  's 
dauchter ;  an'  he  declaret  efterhin  to  the 
king's  commissioner  that  a  pale  blue  kin' 
o'  licht  cam  frae  them,  the  whilk  the 
body  he  was  conversin'  wi',  an'  luikin' 
straucht  at,  never  saw. 

"Weel,  the  short  and  the  lang  o'  't 
that  nicht  was  that  they  gaed  a'  to  their 
beds. 

"!'  the  mornin',  whan  the  markis — 
the  yerl,  I  sud  say — an'  his  dochter  cam 
doon  the  stair,  the  haill  menyie  [com- 
pany) was  awa.  Never  a  horse  or  horse 
was  i'  the  stable  but  the  yerl's  ain  beasts 
— no  ae  hair  left  ahin'  to  shaw  that  they 
had  been  there ;  an'  i'  the  chaumers  al- 
lotted to  their  riders  never  a  pair  0'  sheets 
had  been  sleepit  in. 

"  The  yerl  an'  my  leddy  sat  doon  to 
brak  their  fast — no  freely  i'  the  same  hu- 


mor, the  twa  o'  them,  as  ye  may  weel 
believe.  Whan  they  war  aboot  half 
throu',  wha  sud  come  stridin'  in,  some 
dour  an'  ill-pleased  like,  but  the  prence 
himsel' !  Baith  yerl  an'  leddy  startit  up  : 
'at  they  sud  hae  sitten  doon  till  a  meal 
ohn  even  adverteest  the  veesitor  that  sic 
was  their  purpose  !  They  made  muckle 
adu  wi'  apologies  an'  explanations,  but 
the  prence  aye  booed  an'  booed,  an'  said 
sae  little  that  they  thocht  him  mortal  an- 
gert ;  the  whilk  was  a  great  vex  to  my 
leddy,  ye  may  be  sure.  He  had  a  with- 
ert-like  luik,  an'  the  verra  diamonds  in 
's  claes  war  douf  like.  A'thegither  he 
had  a  brunt-oot  kin'  o'  aissy  [ashy)  leuk. 

"At  len'th  the  butler  cam  in,  an'  the 
prence  signed  till  him,  an'  he  gaed  near, 
an'  the  prence  drew  him  doon  an'  toot- 
mootit  in  's  lug ;  an'  his  breath,  the  auld 
man  said,  was  like  the  grave  :  he  hadna 
had  's  mornin',  he  said,  an'  tellt  him  to 
put  the  whusky  upo'  the  table.  The 
butler  did  as  he  was  tauld,  an'  set  doon 
the  decanter,  an'  a  glaiss  aside  it ;  but 
the  prence  bannt  him  jist  fearfu',  an' 
ordert  him  to  tak  awa  that  playock  and 
fess  a  tum'ler. 

"  I'm  thinkin',  my  lord,  that  maun  be 
a  modern  touch,"  remarked  Malcolm 
here,  interrupting  himself:  "there  wasna 
glaiss  i'  thae  times — was  there  ?" 

"What  do  I  know  ?"  said  the  marquis. 
"Go  on  with  your  story." 

"But  there's  mair  intill  't  than  that," 
persisted  Malcolm.  "  I  doobt  gien  there 
was  ony  whusky  i'  that  times  aither;  for 
I  hard  a  gentleman  say  the  ither  day  'at 
hoo  he  had  tastit  the  first  whusky  'at  was 
ever  distillt  in  Scotlan',  an'  horrible  stuff 
it  was,  he  said,  though  it  was  'maist  as 
auld  as  the  forty-five." 

"  Confound  your  long  wind  !  Go  on," 
said  the  marquis  peremptorily. 

"We  s'  ca"  't  whusky,  than,  ony  gait," 
said  Malcolm,  and  resumed:  "The  but- 
ler did  again  as  he  was  bidden,  an  fiess 
[fetched)  a  tum'ler,  or  mairlikly  a  siller 
cup,  an'  the  prence  took  the  decanter,  or 
what  it  micht  be,  an'  filled  it  to  the  verra 
brim.  The  butler's  een  'maist  startit 
frae  's  heid,  but  naebody  said  naething. 
He  liftit  it,  greedy-hke,  an'  drank  aff 
the  whusky  as  gien  't  had  been  watter. 


i68 


MALCOLM. 


'  That's  middlin','  he  said  as  he  set  it  o' 
the  table  again.  They  luikit  to  see  him 
fa'  doon  deid,  but  in  place  o'  that  he  be- 
goud  to  gether  himsel'  a  bit,  an'  says  he, 
'  We  brew  the  same  drink  i'  my  country, 
but  a  wee  mair  pooerfu'.'  Syne  he  askit 
for  a  slice  o'  boar-ham  an'  a  raw  aipple ; 
an'  that  was  a'  he  ate.  But  he  took 
anither  waucht  (large  draught)  o'  the 
whusky,  an'  his  een  grew  brichter,  an' 
the  stanes  aboot  him  began  to  flash 
again ;  an'  my  leddy  admired  him  the 
mair  that  what  wad  hae  felled  ony  ither 
man  only  waukened  him  up  a  bit.  An' 
syne  he  telled  them  hoo,  laith  to  be 
fashous,  he  had  gi'en  orders  till 's  menyie 
to  be  aff  afore  the  mornin'  brak,  an'  wait 
at  the  neist  cheenge-hoose  till  he  jined 
them  ;  '  Whaur,'  said  the  leddy,  '  I  trust 
ye'U  lat  them  wait,  or  else  sen'  for  them.' 
But  the  yerl  sat  an'  said  never  a  word. 
The  prence  gae  him  ae  glower,  an'  de- 
clared that  his  leddy's  word  was  law  to 
him :  he  wad  bide  till  she  wuUed  him  to 
gang.  At  this  her  een  s'not  fire  'maist 
like  his  ain,  an'  she  smilit  as  she  had 
never  smilit  afore ;  an'  the  yerl  cudna 
bide  the  sicht  o'  't,  but  daurna  interfere  : 
he  rase  an'  left  the  room  an'  them  the- 
gether. 

"What  passed  atwixt  the  twa  there 
was  nane  to  tell,  but  or  an  hoor  was  by 
they  cam  oot  upo'  the  gairden-terrace 
thegither,  han'  in  han',  luikin  baith  o' 
them  as  gran'  an'  as  weel  pleased  as 
gien  they  had  been  king  and  queen. 
The  lang  an'  the  short  o'  't  was,  that  the 
same  day  at  nicht  the  twa  was  merried. 
Naither  o'  them  wad  hear  o'  a  priest. 
Say  what  the  auld  yerl  cud,  they  wad 
.not  hear  o'  sic  a  thing,  an'  the  leddy  was 
'maist  mair  set  agane  't  nor  the  prence. 
She  wad  be  merried  accordin'  to  Scots 
law,  she   said,   an'  wad  hae  nae  ither 

■  ceremony,  say  'at  he  likit. 

"A  gran'  feast  was  gotten  ready,  an' 
jist  the  meenute  afore  it  was  cairriet  to 
the  ha'  the  great  bell  o'  the  castel  yowlt 

■  cot,  an'  a'  the  fowk  o'  the  hoose  was 
gaithered  i'  the  coortyaird,  an'  oot  cam 
the  twa  afore  them,  han'  in  han',  de- 
clarin'  thomscl's  merried  fowk ;  the 
whilk,  accordin'  to  Scots  law,  was  but 
ower  guid  a  merriagc.     Syne   they  sat 


doon  to  their  denner,  and  there  they  sat 
— no  drinkin'  muckle,  they  say,  but  mer- 
rily enjoyin'  themsel's,  the  leddy  singin' 
a  sang  noo  an'  again,  an'  the  prence 
sayin'  he  ance  cud  sing,  but  had  forgot- 
ten the  gait  o'  't;  but  never  a  prayer 
said  nor  a  blessin'  askit — oontil  the  clock 
chappit  twal,  whaurupon  the  prence  and 
the  prencess  rase  to  gang  to  their  bed — 
in  a  room  whaur  the  king  himsel'  aye 
sleepit  whan  he  cam  to  see  them.  But 
there  wasna  ane  o'  the  men  or  the  maids 
't  wad  hae  daured  be  their  lanes  wi'  that 
man,  prence  as  he  ca'd  himsel'. 

"A  meenute,  or  barely  twa,  was  ower 
whan  a  cry  cam  frae  the  king's  room — 
a  fearfu'  cry,  a  lang,  lang  skreigh.  The 
men  an'  the  maids  luikit  at  ane  anither 
wi'  awsome  luiks,  an'  '  He's  killin'  her!' 
they  a'  gaspit  at  ance. 

"  Noo  she  was  never  a  favorite  wi'  ony 
ane  o'  her  ain  fowk,  but  still  they  could- 
na  hear  sic  a  cry  frae  her  ohn  run  to  the 
yerl. 

"They  fand  him  pacin'  up  and  doon 
the  ha',  an'  luikin'  like  a  deid  man  in  a 
rage  o'  fear.  But  whan  they  telled  him 
he  only  leuch  at  them,  an'  ca'd  them  ill 
names,  an'  said  he  had  na  hard  a  cheep. 
Sae  they  tuik  naething  by  that,  an'  gaed 
back  trimlin*. 

"  Twa  o'  them,  a  man  an'  a  maid,  to 
haud  hert  in  ane  anither,  gaed  up  to  the 
door  o'  the  transe  [passage)  'at  led  to 
the  king's  room,  but  for  a  while  they 
hard  naething.  Syne  cam  the  soon'  like 
o'  moanin'  an'  greitin'  an'  prayin'. 

"The  neist  meenute  they  war  back 
again  amo'  the  lave,  luikin'  like  twa 
corps.  They  had  opent  the  door  o'  the 
transe  to  hearken  closer,  an'  what  sud 
they  see  there  but  the  fiery  een  an'  the 
white  teeth  o'  the  prence's  horse,  lyin' 
athort  the  door  o'  the  king's  room,  wi'  's 
heid  atween  's  fore  feet,  an'  keepin' 
watch  like  a  tyke  [dog)  ? 

"  Er'  lang  they  bethoucht  themsels', 
an'  twa  o'  them  set  oot  an'  aff  thegither 
for  the  priory — that's  whaur  yer  ain  hoose 
o'  Lossie  noo  stan's,  my  lord — to  fess  a 
priest.  It  wad  be  a  guid  twa  hoor  or 
they  wan  back,  an'  a'  that  time  ilka  noo 
an'  than  the  moanin'  an'  the  beggin'  an' 
the   cryin'  wad  come   again.     An'   the 


MALCOLM. 


169 


warder  upo'  the  heich  tooer  declared  'at 
ever  sin'  midnicht  the  prence's  menyie, 
the  haill  twal'  o'  them,  was  careerin' 
aboot  the  castel,  roon'  an'  roon',  wi'  the 
een  o'  their  beasts  lowin',  and  their  heids 
oot,  an'  their  manes  up,  an'  their  tails 
fleein'  ahint  them.  He  aye  lost  sicht  o' 
them  whan  they  wan  to  the  edge  o'  the 
scaur,  but  roon'  they  aye  cam  again  upo' 
the  ither  side,  as  gien  there  had  been  a 
ro'd  whaur  there  was  na  even  a  ledge. 

"The  moment  the  priest's  horse  set  fut 
upo'  the  drawbrig  the  puir  leddy  gae 
anither  ougsome  cry,  a  hantle  waur  nor 
the  fust,  an'  up  gat  a  suddent  roar  an'  a 
blast  o'  win'  that  maist  cairried  the  castel 
there  aff  o'  the  cliff  intill  the  watter,  an' 
syne  cam  a  flash  o'  blue  licht  an'  a  rum'- 
lin'.  Efter  that  a'  was  quaiet :  it  was  a' 
ower  afore  the  priest  wan  athort  the  coort- 
yaird  an'  up  the  stair.  For  he  crossed 
himsel'  an'  gaed  straucht  for  the  bridal- 
chaumer.  By  this  time  the  yerl  had 
come  up,  an'  followed  cooerin'  ahin'  the 
priest. 

"Never  a  horse  was  i'  the  transe  ;  an' 
the  priest,  first  layin'  the  cross  'at  hang 
frae  's  belt  agane  the  door  o'  the  chaum- 
er,  flang  't  open  wi'oot  ony  ceremony, 
for  ye  '11  alloo  there  was  room  for  nane. 

"An'  what  think  ye  was  the  first  thing 
the  yerl  saw  ?  A  great  hole  i'  the  wa'  o' 
the  room,  an'  the  starry  pleuch  luikin'  in 
at  it,  an'  the  sea  lyin'  far  doon  afore  him 
— as  quaiet  as  the  bride  upo'  the  bed, 
but  a  hantle  bonnier  to  luik  at ;  for  ilka 
steek  that  had  been  on  her  was  brunt 
aff,  an'  the  bonny  body  o'  her  was  lyin' 
a'  runklet  an'  as  black  's  a  coal  frae  heid 
to  fut ;  an '  the  reek  at  rase  frae  't  was 
heedeous.  1  needna  say  the  bridegroom 
wasna  there.  Some  fowk  thoucht  it  a 
guid  sign  that  he  hadna  cairriet  the  body 
wi'  him  ;  but  maybe  he  was  ower  sud- 
dent scared  by  the  fut  o'  the  priest's  horse 
upo'  the  drawbrig,  an'  dauredna  bide  his 
oncome.  Sae  the  fower-fut  stane  wa' 
had  to  flee  afore  him  for  a  throu'-gang 
to  the  Prence  o'  the  Pooer  o'  the  Air. 
An*  yon's  the  verra  hole  to  this  day,  'at 
ye  was  sae  near  ower  weel  acquaint  wi' 
yersel',  my  leddy.  For  the  yerl  left  the 
castel,  and  never  a  Colonsay  has  made 
his  abode  there  sin'  syne.     But  some  say 


'at  the  rizzon  the  castel  cam  to  be  desertit 
a'thegither  was,  that  as  aften  as  they 
biggit  up  the  hole  it  fell  oot  again  as 
sure  's  the  day  o'  the  year  cam  roon' 
whan  it  first  happent.  They  say  that  at 
twal  o'clock  that  same  nicht  the  door  o' 
that  room  aye  gaed  tu,  that  naebody  daur 
touch  't,  for  the  heat  o'  the  han'le  o'  't; 
an'  syne  cam  the  skreighin'  an'  the 
moanin'  an'  the  fearsome  skelloch  at  the 
last,  an'  a  rum'le  like  thun'er ;  an'  i'  the 
mornin'  there  was  the  wa'  oot.  The  hole's 
bigger  noo,  for  a'  the  decay  o'  the  castel 
has  taen  to  slidin'  oot  at  it,  an'  dootless 
it'll  spread  an'  spread  till  the  haill  struc- 
tur  vainishes — at  least  sae  they  say,  my 
lord — but  I  wad  hae  a  try  at  the  haudin' 
o'  't  thegither  for  'a  that.  I  dinna  see  'at 
the  deil  sud  hae  't  a'  his  ain  gait,  as  gien 
we  war  a'  fleyt  at  him.  Fowk  hae  three- 
pit  upo'  me  that  there  i'  the  gloamin' 
they  hae  seen  an'  awsome  face  luikin' 
in  upo'  them  throu'  that  slap  i'  the  wa' ; 
but  1  never  believed  it  was  onything  but 
their  ain  fancy,  though  for  a'  'at  I  ken  it 
may  ha'  been  something  no  canny.  Still, 
I  say,  wha's  feart  ?  The  111  Man  has  no 
pooer  'cep  ower  his  ain  kin.  We're  tellt 
to  resist  him  an'  he'll  flee  frae  's." 

"A  good  story,  and  well  told,"  said 
the  marquis  kindly.  "  Don't  you  think 
so,  Florimel .''" 

"  Yes,  papa,"  Lady  Florimel  answer- 
ed; "only  he  kept  us  waiting  too  long 
for  the  end  of  it." 

"Some  fowk,  my  leddy,"  said  Mal- 
colm, "wad  aye  be  at  the  hin'er  en'  o' 
a'thing.  But  for  mysel',  the  mair  pleased 
I  was  to  be  gaein'  ony  gait,  the  mair  I 
wad  spin  oot  the  ro'd  till't." 

"  How  much  now  of  the  story  may  be 
your  own  invention  ?"  said  the  marquis. 

"Ow!  nae  that  muckle,  my  lord — jist 
a  feow  extras  an'  partic'lars  'at  micht 
weel  hae  been,  wi'  an  adjective  or  an 
adverb  or  sic-like  here  an'  there.  I 
made  ae  mistak',  though  :  gien  't  was 
yon  hole  yonner,  they  bude  till  hae  gane 
doon  an'  no  up  the  stair  to  their  chaumcr." 

His  lordship  laughed,  and  again  com- 
mending the  tale  rose  :  it  was  time  to  re- 
embark — an  operation  less  arduous  than 
before,  for  in  the  present  state  of  the 
tide  it  was  easy  to  bring  the  cutter  so 


lyo 


MALCOLM. 


close  to  a  low  rock  that  even  Lady  Flori- 
mel  could  step  on  board. 

As  they  had  now  to  beat  to  windward, 
Malcohn  kept  the  tiller  in  his  own  hand. 
But  indeed  Lady  Florimel  did  not  want 
to  steer :  she  was  so  much  occupied  with 
her  thoughts  that  her  hands  must  remain 
idle. 

Partly  to  turn  them  away  from  the 
more  terrible  portion  of  her  adventure, 
she  began  to  reflect  upon  her  interview 
with  Mrs.  Catanach  —  if  mterview  it 
could  be  called  where  she  had  seen  no 
one.  At  first  she  was  sorry  that  she  had 
not  told  her  father  of  it,  and  had  the 
ruin  searched ;  but  when  she  thought 
of  the  communication  the  woman  had 
made  to  her,  she  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was,  for  various  reasons — not  to 
mention  the  probability  that  he  would 
have  set  it  all  down  to  the  workings  of 
an  unavoidably  excited  nervous  condi- 
tion— better  that  she  should  mention  it 
to  no  one  but  Duncan  MacPhail. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  harbor-quay 
they  found  the  carriage  waiting,  but 
neither  the  marquis  nor  Lady  Florimel 
thought  of  Malcolm's  foot,  and  he  was 
left  to  limp  painfully  home.  As  he  pass- 
ed Mrs.  Catanach's  cottage  he  looked  up : 
there  were  the  blinds  still  drawn  down, 
the  door  was  shut  and  the  place  was 
silent  as  the  grave.  By  the  time  he 
reached  Lossie  House  his  foot  was  very 
much  swollen.  When  Mrs.  Courthope 
saw  it  she  sent  him  to  bed  at  once  and 
applied  a  poultice. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 
DUNCAN'S   DISCLOSURE. 

The  night  long  Malcolm  kept  dream- 
ing of  his  fall ;  and  his  dreams  were 
worse  than  the  reality,  inasmuch  as  they 
invaiiably  sent  him  sliding  out  of  the 
breach  to  receive  the  cut  on  the  rocks 
below.  Very  oddly,  this  catastrophe  was 
always  occasioned  by  the  grasp  of  a  hand 
on  his  ankle.  Invariably  also,  just  as 
he  slipped,  the  face  of  the  prince  ap- 
peared in  the  bre-ach,  but  it  was  at  the 
same  time  the  face  of  Mrs.  Catanach. 

The   next    morning    Mrs.    Courthope 


found  him  feverish,  and  insisted  on  his 
remaining  in  bed — no  small  trial  to  one 
who  had  never  been  an  hour  ill  in  his 
life ;  but  he  was  suffering  so  much  that 
he  made  little  resistance. 

In  the  enforced  quiescence,  and  under 
the  excitement  of  pain  and  fever,  Mal- 
colm first  became  aware  how  much  the 
idea  of  Lady  Florimel  had  at  length  pos- 
sessed him.  But  even  in  his  own  thought 
he  never  once  came  upon  the  phrase  in 
love  as  representing  his  condition  in  re- 
gard to  her :  he  only  knew  that  he  wor- 
shiped her,  and  would  be  overjoyed  to 
die  for  her.  The  youth  had  about  as  lit- 
tle vanity  as  could  well  consist  with  indi- 
vidual coherence  :  if  he  was  vain  at  all, 
it  was  neither  of  his  intellectual  nor  per- 
sonal endowments,  but  of  the  few  tunes 
he  could  play  on  his  grandfather's  pipes. 
He  could  run  and  swim  —  rare  accom- 
plishments amongst  the  fishermen — and 
was  said  to  be  the  best  dancer  of  them 
all ;  but  he  never  thought  of  such  com- 
parison himself.  The  rescue  of  Lady 
Florimel  made  him  very  happy.  He  had 
been  of  service  to  her,  but  so  far  was  he 
from  cherishing  a  shadow  of  presump- 
tion that  as  he  lay  there  he  felt  it  would 
be  utter  content  to  live  serving  her  for 
ever,  even  when  he  was  old  and  wrinkled 
and  gray  like  his  grandfather  :  he  never 
dreamed  of  her  growing  old  and  wrinkled 
and  gray. 

A  single  sudden  thought  sufficed  to 
scatter — not  the  devotion,  but  its  peace. 
Of  course  she  would  marry  some  day, 
and  what  then  .''  He  looked  the  inevit- 
able in  the  face,  but  as  he  looked  that 
face  grew  an  ugly  one.  He  broke  into 
a  laugh:  his  soul  had  settled  like  a 
brooding  cloud  over  the  gulf  that  lay  be- 
tween a  fisher-lad  and  the  daughter  of  a 
peer.  But  although  he  was  no  coxcomb, 
neither  had  he  fed  himself  on  romances, 
as  Lady  Florimel  had  been  doing  of  late  ; 
and  although  the  laugh  was  quite  honest- 
ly laughed  at  himself,  it  was  nevertheless 
a  bitter  one.  For  again  came  the  ques- 
tion, Why  should  an  absurtlity  be  a  pos- 
sibility ?  It  was  absurd,  and  yet  possi- 
ble:  there  was  the  point.  In  mathe- 
matics it  was  not  so  :  there,  of  two  oppo- 
sites  to  prove  one  an  absurdity  was  to 


MALCOLM. 


171 


prove  the  other  a  fact.  Neither  in  meta- 
physics was  it  so :  there  also  an  impos- 
sibility and  an  absurdity  were  one  and 
the  same  thing.  But  here,  in  a  region 
of  infinitely  more  import  to  the  human 
life  than  an  eternity  of  mathematical 
truth,  there  was  at  least  one  absurdity 
which  was  yet  inevitable — an  absurdity, 
yet  with  a  villainous  attendance  of  direst 
heat,  marrow-freezing  cold,  faintings  and 
ravings  and  demoniacal  laughter. 

Had  it  been  a  purely  logical  question 
he  was  dealing  with,  he  might  not  have 
been  quite  puzzled ;  but  to  apply  logic 
here,  as  he  was  attempting  to  do,  was 
like  —  not  like  attacking  a  fortification 
with  a  penknife,  for  a  penknife  might 
win  its  way  through  the  granite  ribs 
of  Cronstadt  —  it  was  like  attacking  an 
eclipse  with  a  broomstick.  There  was 
a  solution  to  the  difficulty;  but  as  the 
difficulty  itself  was  deeper  than  he  knew, 
so  the  answer  to  it  lay  higher  than  he 
could  reach — was  in  fact  at  once  grand- 
er and  finer  than  he  was  yet  capable  of 
understanding. 

His  disjointed  meditations  were  inter- 
rupted quite  by  the  entrance  of  the  man 
to  whom  alone  of  all  men  he  could  at 
the  time  have  given  a  hearty  welcome. 
The  schoolmaster  seated  himself  by  his 
bedside,  and  they  had  a  long  talk.  I 
had  set  down  this  talk,  but  came  to  the 
conclusion  I  had  better  not  print  it: 
ranging  both  high  and  wide,  and  touch- 
ing on  points  of  vital  importance,  it  was 
yet  so  odd  that  it  would  have  been  to 
too  many  of  my  readers  but  a  chimsera 
tumbling  in  a  vacuum,  as  they  will  read- 
ily allow  when  I  tell  them  that  it  started 
from  the  question — which  had  arisen  in 
Malcolm's  mind  so  long  ago,  but  which 
he  had  not  hitherto  propounded  to  his 
friend  —  as  to  the  consequences  of  a 
man's  marrying  a  mermaid ;  and  that 
Malcolm,  reversing  its  relations,  pro- 
posed next  the  consequences  of  a  man's 
being  in  love  with  a  ghost  or  an  angel. 

"  I'm  dreidfu'  tired  o'  lyin'  here  i'  my 
bed,"  said  Malcolm  at  length  when, 
neither  desiring  to  carry  the  conversa- 
tion further,  a  pause  had  intervened.  "I 
dinna  ken  what  I  want.  Whiles  I  think 
it's  the  sun,  whiles  the  win',  and  whiles 


the  watter.  But  I  canna  rist.  Haena 
ye  a  bit  ballant  ye  could  say  till  me,  Mr. 
Graham  ?  There's  naething  wad  quaiet 
me  like  a  ballant." 

The  schoolmaster  thought  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  said,  "I'll  give  you 
one  of  my  own  if  you  like,  Malcolm.  I 
made  it  some  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago." 

"That  wad  be  a  trate,  sir,"  returned 
Malcolm;  and  the  master,  with  perfect 
rhythm,  and  a  modulation  amounting 
almost  to  melody,  repeated  the  following 
verses : 

The  water  ran  doon  frae  the  heich  hope-heid  {head 
of  the  valley), 

WV  a  Rzn,  burnie,  rin  : 
It  wimpled,  an'  waggled,  an'  sang  a  screed 

O'  nonsense,  an'  wadna  blin  (cease), 

IVr  its  Rin,  burnie,  rin. 

Frae  the  hert  o'  the  warl'  wi'  a  swirl  an'  a  sway, 

An'  a  Rin,  burnie,  rin. 
That  water  lap  clear  frae  the  dark  till  the  day. 

An'  singin'  awa'  did  spin,  , 

Wf  its  Rin,  burnie,  rin. 

Ae  wee  bit  mile  frae  the  heich  hope-heid, 

IVz   a  Rin,  burnie,  rin, 
'Mang  her  yows  an'  her  lambs  the  herd-l&ssie  stude. 

An'  she  loot  a  tear  fa'  in, 

Wi"  a  Rin,  burnie,  rin. 

Frae  the  hert  o'  the  maiden  that  tear-drap  rase, 

WT  a  Rin,  burnie,  rin  : 
Wearily  clim'in'  up  narrow  ways. 

There  was  but  a  drap  to  fa'  in, 

Sae  slow  did  that  burnie  rin. 

Twa  wee  bit  miles  frae  the  heich  hope-heid, 

pyi'  a  Rin,  burnie,  rin, 
Doon  creepit  a  cowerin'  streakie  o'  reid. 

An'  meltit  awa'  within, 

IVz'  a  Rin,  burnie,  rin. 

Frae  the  hert  o'  a  youth  cam  the  tricklin'  reid, 

IVf  a  Rin,  burnie,  rin  : 
It  ran  an'  ran  till  it  left  him  deid. 

An'  syne  it  dried  up  i'  the  win'. 

An'  that  burnie  nae  mair  did  rin. 

Whan  the  wimplin'  burn  that  frae  three  herts  gaed 

Wi"  a  Rin,  burnie,  rin. 
Cam  to  the  lip  o'  the  sea  sae  braid, 

It  curled  an'  grued  wi'  pain  o'  sin; 

But  it  took  that  burnie  in. 

"  It's  a  bonny,  bonny  sang,"  said  Mal- 
colm, "but  I  canna  say  I  a'thegither  like 
it." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Mr.  Graham,  with 
an  inquiring  smile. 

"  Because  the  ocean  sudna  mak  a  mou' 
at  the  puir  earth-burnie  that  cudna  help 
what  ran  intill  't." 

"It  took  it  in,  though,  and  made  it 


172 


MALCOLM. 


clean,  for  all  the  pain  it  couldn't  help 
either." 

"  Weel,  gien  yu  luik  at  it  that  gait !" 
said  Malcolm. 

In  the  evening  his  grandfather  came 
to  see  him,  and  sat  down  by  his  bedside, 
full  of  a  tender  anxiety  which  he  was 
soon  able  to  alleviate. 

"  Wovvnded  in  ta  hand  and  in  ta  foot," 
said  the  seer:  "what  can  it  mean?  It 
must  mean  something,  Malcolm,  my 
son." 

"Weel,  daddy,  we  maun  jist  bide  till 
we  see,"  said  Malcolm  cheerfully. 

A  little  talk  followed,  in  the  course  of 
which  it  came  into  Malcolm's  head  to 
tell  his  grandfather  the  dream  he  had 
had  so  much  of  the  first  night  he  had 
slept  in  that  room,  but  more  for  the  sake 
of  something  to  talk  about  that  would 
interest  one  who  believed  in  all  kinds  of 
prefigurations  than  for  any  other  reason. 

Duncan  sat  moodily  silent  for  some 
time,  and  then,  with  a  great  heave  of 
his  broad  chest,  lifted  up  his  head,  like 
one  who  had  formed  a  resolution,  and 
said,  "  The  hour  has  come.  She  has  long 
peen  afrait  to  meet  it,  put  it  has  come, 
and  AUister  will  meet  it. — She'll  not  pe 
your  cran'father,  my  son." 

He  spoke  the  words  with  perfect  com- 
posure, but  as  soon  as  they  were  uttered 
burst  into  a  wail  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"Ye'U  be  my  ain  father,  than?"  said 
Malcolm. 

"No,  no,  my  son.  She'll  not  pe  any- 
thing that's  your  own  at  aall." 

And  the  tears  flowed  down  his  chan- 
neled cheeks. 

For  one  moment  Malcolm  was  silent, 
utterly  bewildered.  But  he  must  com- 
fort the  old  man  first,  and  think  about 
what  he  had  said  afterward.  "  Ye're  my 
ain  daddy,  whatever  ye  are,"  he  said. 
"Tell  me  a'  aboot  it,  daddy." 

"She'll  tell  you  all  she'll  pe  knowing, 
my  son,  and  she  nefter  told  a  lie  efen  to 
a  Cawmill." 

He  began  his  story  in  haste,  as  if  an.\- 
ious  to  have  it  over,  but  had  to  pause 
often  from  fresh  outbursts  of  grief.  It 
contained  nothing  more  of  the  essential 
than  I  have  already  recorded,  and  Mal- 
colm was  perplexed  to  think  why  what 


he  had  known  all  the  time  should  affect 
him  so  much  in  the  telling.  But  when 
he  ended  with  the  bitter  cry,  "And  now 
you'll  pe  loving  her  no  more,  my  poy, 
my  chilt,  my  Malcolm!"  he  understood 
it. 

"Daddy!  daddy!"  he  cried,  throwing 
his  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissing 
him,  "  I  lo'e  ye  better  nor  ever.  An' 
weel  I  may !" 

"But  how  can  you,  when  you've  cot 
none  of  ta  plood  in  you,  my  son  ?"  per- 
sisted Duncan. 

"  I  hae  as  muckle  as  ever  I  had, 
daddy." 

"Yes,  put  you'll  didn't  know." 

"  But  ye  did,  daddy." 

"Yes,  and  inteet  she  cannot  tell  why 
she'll  pe  loving  you  so  much  herself  aall 
ta  time." 

"  Weel,  daddy,  gien  ye  cud  lo'e  me 
sae  weel,  kennin'  me  nae  bluid's  bluid 
o'  yer  ain,  I  canna  help  it :  I  maun  lo'e 
ye  mair  nor  ever,  noo  at  I  ken  't  tu. 
Daddy,  daddy,  I  had  nae  claim  upo'  ye, 
an'  ye  hae  been  father  an'  gran'father 
an'  a'  to  me." 

"What  could  she  do,  Malcolm,  my 
poy  ?  Ta  chilt  had  no  one,  and  she  had 
no  one,  and  so  it  wass.  You  must  pe 
her  own  poy,  after  aall.  And  she'll  not  pe 
wondering,  put —  It  might  pe —  Yes, 
inteet  not !" 

His  voice  sank  to  the  murmurs  of  a 
half-uttered  soliloquy,  and  as  he  mur- 
mured he  stroked  Malcolm's  cheek. 

"What  are  ye  efter  noo,  daddy?"  ask- 
ed Malcolm. 

The  only  sign  that  Duncan  heard  the 
question  was  the  complete  silence  that 
followed.  W^hen  Malcolm  repeated  it  , 
he  said  something  in  Gaelic,  but  finished 
the  sentence  thus,  apparently  unaware 
of  the  change  of  language:  "Only  how 
else  should  she  pe  loving  you  so  much, 
Malcolm,  my  son  ?" 

"I  ken  what  Maister  Graham  would 
say,  daddy,"  rejoined  Malcolm  at  a 
half  guess. 

"  What  would  he  say,  my  son  ?     He  's 
a  coot  man,  your  Master  Graham.     It 
could  not  pe  without  ta  scm  fathers  and'j| 
ta  scm  chief" 

"  He  wad   say  it  was  'cause  we  war 


MALCOLM. 


173 


a'  o'  ae  bluid  —  'cause  we  had  a'  ae 
Father." 

"Oh  yes,  no  toubt !  We  aall  come 
from  ta  same  first  paarents,  but  tat  will 
pe  a  ferry  long  way  off,  pefore  ta  clans 
cot  tokether.  It'll  not  pe  holding  ferry 
well  now,  my  son.  Tat  wass  pefore  ta 
Cawmills." 

"That's  no  what  Maister  Graham 
would  mean,  daddy,"  said  Malcolm. 
"  He  wad  mean  that  God  was  the  Father 
o'  's  a',  and  sae  we  cudna  help  lo'in' 
ane  anither." 

"No,  tat  cannot  pe  right,  Malcolm, 
for  then  we  should  haf  to  love  efery- 
pody.  Now  she  loves  you,  my  son,  and 
she  hates  Cawmill  of  Clenlyon.  She 
loves  Mistress  Partan  when  she'll  not  pe 
too  rude  to  her,  and  she  hates  tat  Mis- 
tress Catanach.  She's  a  paad  woman, 
tat,  she'll  pe  certain  sure,  though  she'll 
neffer  saw  her  to  speak  to  her.  She'll 
haf  claaws  to  her  poosoms." 

"Weel,  daddy,  there  was  naething 
ither  to  gar  ye  lo'e  me.  I  was  jist  a 
helpless  human  bein',  an'  sae,  for  that 
an'  nae  ither  rizzon,  ye  tuik  a'  that  fash 
wi'  me!  An'  for  mysel',  I'm  deid  sure 
I  cudna  lo'e  ye  better  gien  ye  war  twise 
my  gran 'father." 

"He's  her  own  poy  !"  cried  the  piper, 
much  comforted  ;  and  his  hand  sought 
his  head  and  lighted  gently  upon  it. 
"Put,  maybe,"  he  went  on,  "she  might 
not  haf  loved  you  so  much  if  she  hadn't 
peen  thinking  sometimes — " 

He  checked  himself.  Malcolm's  ques- 
tions brought  no  conclusion  to  the  sen- 
tence, and  a  long  silence  followed. 

"Supposin'  I  was  to  turn  oot  a  Caw- 
mill ?"  said  Malcolm  at  length. 

The  hand  that  was  fondling  his  curls 
withdrew  as  if  a  serpent  had  bit  it,  and 
Duncan  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  Wass  it  her  own  son  to  pe  speaking 
such  an  efil  thing?"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  injured  and  sad  expostulation. 

"For  onything  ye  ken,  daddy  —  ye 
canna  tell  but  it  mith  be." 

"Ton't  preathe  it,  my  son!"  cried 
Duncan  in  a  voice  of  agony,  as  if  he  saw 
unfolding  a  fearful  game  the  arch-ene- 
my had  been  playing  for  his  soul.  "Put 
it  cannot  pe,"  he  resumed  instantly,  "for 


then  how  should  she  pe  loving  you,  my 
son?" 

"'Cause  ye  was  in  for  that  afore  ye 
kent  wha  the  puir  beastie  was." 

"The  tarling  chilt  I  She  could  7iot 
haf  loved  him  if  he  had  peen  a  Cawmill. 
Her  soul  would  haf  chumped  pack  from 
him  as  from  ta  snake  in  ta  tree.  Ta 
hate  in  her  heart  to  ta  plood  of  ta  Caw- 
mill would  have  killed  ta  chilt  of  ta  Caw- 
mill plood.    No,  Malcolm  !  no,  my  son  !" 

"Ye  wadna  hae  me  believe,  daddy, 
that  gien  ye  had  kent  by  mark  o'  hiv 
{hoof)  an'  horn  that  the  cratur  they  laid 
i'  yer  lap  was  a  Cawmill,  ye  wad  hae 
risen  up  an'  looten  it  lie  whaur  it  fell  ?" 

"  No,  Malcolm,  I  would  haf  put  my  foot 
upon  it,  as  I  would  on  ta  young  fiper  in 
ta  heather." 

"Gien  I  was  to  turn  oot  ane  o'  that  ill 
race,  ye  wad  hate  me,  than,  daddy,  efter 
a'  ?  Ochone,  daddy !  Ye  wad  be  weel 
pleased  to  think  hoo  ye  stack  yer  durk 
throu'  the  ill  han'  o'  me,  an'  wadna  rist 
till  ye  had  it  throu'  the  waur  hert.  I 
doobt  I  had  better  up  an'  awa',  daddy, 
for  wha  kens  what  ye  mayna  du  to  me  ?" 

Malcolm  made  a  movement  to  rise, 
and  Duncan's  quick  ears  understood  it. 
He  sat  down  again  by  his  bedside  and 
threw  his  arms  over  him  :  "Lie  town,  lie 
town,  my  poy !  If  you  ket  up,  tat  will 
pe  you  are  a  Cawmill,  No,  no,  my  son. 
You  are  ferry  cruel  to  your  own  old  dad- 
dy. She  would  pe  too  much  sorry  for 
her  poy  to  hate  him.  It  will  pe  so  tread- 
ful  to  pe  a  Cawmill !  No,  no,  my  poy. 
She  would  take  you  to  her  poosom,  and 
tat  would  trive  ta  Cawmill  out  of  you. 
Put  ton't  speak  of  it  any  more,  my  son, 
for  it  cannot  pe.  She  must  co  now,  for 
her  pipes  will  pe  waiting  for  her." 

Malcolm  feared  he  had  ventured  too 
far,  for  never  before  had  his  grandfather 
left  him  except  for  work.  But  the  pos- 
sibility he  had  started  might  do  some- 
thing to  soften  the  dire  endurance  of  his 
hatred. 

His  thoughts  turned  to  the  new  dark- 
ness let  in  upon  his  history  and  pros- 
pects. All  at  once  the  cry  of  the  mad 
laird  rang  in  his  mind's  ear:  "I  dinna 
ken  whaur  I  cam  frae  !" 

Duncan's  revelation   brought  with  it 


174 


MALCOLM. 


nothing  to  be  done,  hardly  anything  to 
be  thottght — merely  room  for  most  shad- 
owy, most  unfounded  conjecture  ;  nay, 
not  conjecture — nothing  but  the  vaguest 
of  castle-building.  In  merry  mood  he 
would  henceforth  be  the  son  of  some 
mighty  man,  with  a  boundless  future  of 
sunshine  opening  before  him ;  in  sad 
mood,  the  son  of  some  strolling  gypsy 
or  worse — his  very  origin  better  forgot- 
ten, a  disgrace  to  the  existence  for  his 
share  in  which  he  had  hitherto  been 
peacefully  thankful. 

Like  a  lurking  phantom-shroud  the  sad 
mood  leaped  from  the  field  of  his  specu- 
lation and  wrapped  him  in  its  folds  :  sure 
enough,  he  was  but  a  beggar's  brat.  How 
henceforth  was  he  to  look  Lady  Florimel 
in  the  face  ?  Humble  as  he  had  believed 
his  origin,  he  had  hitherto  been  proud 
of  it :  with  such  a  high-minded  sire  as 
he  deemed  his  own,  how  could  he  be 
other  ?  But  now  !  Nevermore  could  he 
look  one  of  his  old  companions  in  the 
face.  They  were  all  honorable  men,  he 
a  base-born  foundling ! 

He  would  tell  Mr.  Graham  of  course ; 
but  what  could  Mr.  Graham  say  to  it  ? 
The  fact  remained :  he  must  leave  Port- 
lossie. 

His  mind  went  on  brooding,  specula- 
ting, devising.  The  evening  sunk  into 
the  night,  but  he  never  knew  he  was  in 
the  dark  until  the  housekeeper  brought 
him  a  light.  After  a  cup  of  tea  his 
thoughts  found  pleasanter  paths.  One 
thing  was  certain  :  he  must  lay  himself 
out,  as  he  had  never  done  before,  to 
make  Duncan  MacPhail  happy.  With 
this  one  thing  clear  to  both  heart  and 
mind  he  fell  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER   XLIIl. 
THE   wizard's   chamber. 

He  woke  in  the  dark,  with  that  strange 
feeling  of  bewilderment  which  accompa- 
nies the  consciousness  of  having  been 
waked :  is  it  that  the  brain  wakes  before 
the  mind,  and  like  a  servant  unexpect- 
edly summoned  does  not  know  what  to 
do,  with  its  master  from  home  ?  or  is  it 
that  the  master  wakes  first,  and  the  ser- 


vant is  too  sleepy  to  answer  his  call? 
Quickly  coming  to  himself,  however,  he 
sought  the  cause  of  the  perturbation  now 
slowly  ebbing.  But  the  dark  into  which 
he  stared  could  tell  nothing ;  therefore 
he  abandoned  his  eyes,  took  his  station 
in  his  ears,  and  thence  sent  out  his  mes- 
sengers. But  neither,  for  some  moments, 
could  the  scouts  of  hearing  come  upon 
any  sign. 

At  length  something  seemed  doubt- 
fully to  touch  the  sense — the  faintest  sus- 
picion of  a  noise  in  the  next  room,  the 
wizard's  chamber :  it  was  enough  to  set 
Malcolm  on  the  floor.  Forgetting  his 
wounded  foot  and  lighting  upon  it,  the 
agony  it  caused  him  dropped  him  at 
once  on  his  hands  and  knees,  and  in 
this  posture  he  crept  into  the  passage. 
As  soon  as  his  head  was  outside  his  own 
door  he  saw  a  faint  gleam  of  light  com- 
ing from  beneath  that  of  the  next  room. 
Advancing  noiselessly  and  softly  feeling 
for  the  latch,  his  hand  encountered  a 
bunch  of  keys  depending  from  the  lock, 
but  happily  did  not  set  them  jingling. 
As  softly  he  lifted  the  latch,  when  almost 
of  itself  the  door  opened  a  couple  of 
inches  and  with  bated  breath  he  saw  the 
back  of  a  figure  he  could  not  mistake — 
that  of  Mrs.  Catanach.  She  was  stoop- 
ing by  the  side  of  a  tent-bed  much  like 
his  own,  fumbling  with  the  bottom  hem 
of  one  of  the  check  curtains,  which  she 
was  holding  toward  the  light  of  a  lantern 
on  a  chair.  Suddenly  she  turned  her 
face  to  the  door,  as  if  apprehending  a 
presence :  as  suddenly  he  closed  it  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  To  do  so 
he  had  to  use  considerable  force,  and 
concluded  its  grating  sound  had  been 
what  waked  him. 

Having  thus  secured  the  prowk;,  he 
crept  back  to  his  room,  considering  what 
he  should  do  next.  The  speedy  result 
of  his  cogitations  was  that  he  indued  his 
nether  garments,  though  with  difficulty 
from  the  size  of  his  foot,  thrust  his  head 
and  arms  through  a  jersey,  and  set  out 
on  hands  and  knees  for  an  awkward 
crawl  to  Lord  Lossie's  bedroom. 

It  was  a  painful  journey,  especially 
down  the  two  spiral  stone  stairs  which 
led  to  the  first  floor  where  it  lay.     As  he 


MALCOLM. 


175 


went,  Malcolm  resolved,  in  order  to  avoid 
rousing  needless  observers,  to  enter  the 
room,  if  possible,  before  waking  the 
marquis. 

The  door  opened  noiselessly.  A  night- 
light,  afloat  in  a  crystal  cup,  revealed  the 
bed,  and  his  master  asleep,  with  one  arm 
lying  on  the  crimson  quilt.  He  crept  in, 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  advanced 
halfway  to  the  bed,  and  in  a  low  voice 
4  ailed  the  marquis. 

Lord  Lossie  started  up  on  his  elbow, 
an  .1  without  a  moment's  consideration 
seized  one  of  a  brace  of  pistols  which 
lay  on  a  table  by  his  side,  and  fired. 
The  ball  went  with  a  sharp  thud  into  the 
thick  mahogany  door. 

"My  lord  I  my  lord  !"  cried  Malcolm, 
"it's  only  me!" 

"And  who  the  devil  are  you  ?"  return- 
ed the  marquis,  catching  up  the  second 
pistol. 

"Malcolm,  yer  ain  henchman,  my 
lord." 

"  Damn  you !  what  are  you  about  there  ? 
Get  up.  What  are  you  after  there,  crawl- 
ing like  a  thief?" 

As  he  spoke  he  leaped  from  the  bed 
and  seized  Malcolm  by  the  back  of  the 
neck. 

"  It's  a  mercy  I  wasna  mair  like  an 
honest  man,"  said  Malcolm,  "or  that 
bullet  wad  hae  been  throu'  the  harns  o' 
me.     Yer  lordship's  a  wheen  ower-rash." 

"  Rash,  you  rascal !"  cried  Lord  Lossie, 
"  when  a  fellow  comes  into  my  room  on 
his  hands  and  knees  in  the  middle  of 
the  night !  Get  up  and  tell  me  what  you 
are  after,  or  by  Jove  I'll  break  every 
bone  in  your  body." 

A  kick  from  his  bare  foot  in  Malcolm's 
ribs  fitly  closed  the  sentence. 

"Ye  are  ower-rash,  my  lord,"  persisted 
Malcolm.  "  I  canna  get  up.  I  hae  a  fit 
the  size  o'  a  sma'  buoy." 

"Speak,  then,  you  rascal!"  said  his 
lordship,  loosening  his  hold  and  retreat- 
ing a  few  steps,  with  the  pistol  cocked  in 
his  hand. 

"  Dinna  ye  think  it  wad  be  better  to 
lock  the  door,  for  fear  the  shot  sud  bring 
ony  o'  the  fowk  ?"  suggested  Malcolm 
as  he  rose  to  his  knees  and  leaned  his 
hands  on  a  chair. 


"You're  bent  on  murdering  me,  are 
you,  then  ?"  said  the  marquis,  beginning 
to  come  to  himself  and  see  the  ludicrous- 
ness  of  the  situation. 

"Gien  I  had  been  that,  my  lord,  I 
wadna  hae  waukent  ye  up  first." 

"  Well,  what  the  devil  is  it  all  about  ? 
You  needn't  think  any  of  the  men  will 
come.  They're  a  pack  of  the  greatest 
cowards  ever  breathed." 

"Weel,  my  lord,  I  hae  gruppit  her  at 
last,  an'  I  bude  to  come  an'  tell  ye." 

"  Leave  your  beastly  gibberish.  You 
can  speak  what  at  least  resembles  Eng- 
lish when  you  like." 

"Weel,  my  lord,  I  hae  her  unner  lock 
an'  keye." 

"Who,  in  the  name  of  Satan  ?" 

"Mistress  Catanach,  my  lord." 

"Damn  her  eyes  !  What's  she  to  me 
that  I  should  be  waked  out  of  a  good 
sleep  for  he?-?" 

"That's  what  I  wad  fain  yer  lordship 
kent :  /dinna." 

"  None  of  your  riddles !  Explain  your- 
self, and  make  haste :  I  want  to  go  to 
bed  again." 

"  'Deed,  yer  lordship  maun  jist  pit  on 
yer  claes  an'  come  wi'  me." 

"Where  to  ?" 

"  To  the  warlock's  chaumer,  my  lord 
— whaur  that  ill  wuman  remains  '  in  du- 
rance vile,'  as  Spenser  wad  say,  but  no 
sae  vile's  hersel',  I  doobt." 

Thus  arrived  at  length,  with  a  clear 
road  before  him,  at  the  opening  of  his 
case,  Malcolm  told  in  few  words  what 
had  fallen  out.  As  he  went  on  the  mar- 
quis grew  interested,  and  by  the  time  he 
had  finished  had  got  himself  into  dress- 
ing-gown and  slippers. 

"  W'adna  ye  tak  yer  pistol  ?"  suggested 
Malcolm  slyly. 

"  W'hat !  to  meet  a  woman  .''"  said  his 
lordship. 

"Ow  na !  but  wha  kens  there  micht- 
na  be  anither  murderer  aboot  ?  There 
micht  be  twa  in  ae  nicht." 

Impertinent  as  was  Malcolm's  humor, 
his  master  did  not  take  it  amiss :  he 
lighted  a  candle,  told  him  to  lead  the 
way,  and  took  his  revenge  by  making 
joke  after  joke  upon  him  as  he  crawled 
along.     With  the  upper  regions  of  his 


176 


MALCOLM. 


house  the  marquis  was  as  httle  acquauit- 
ed  as  with  those  of  his  nature,  and  re- 
quired a  guide. 

Arrived  at  length  at  the  wizard's  cham- 
ber, they  hstened  at  the  door  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  heard  nothing :  neither  was 
there  any  hght  visible  at  its  lines  of 
junction.  Malcolm  turned  the  key,  and 
the  marquis  stood  close  behind,  ready  to 
enter.  But  the  moment  the  door  was 
unlocked  it  was  pulled  open  violently, 
and  Mrs.  Catanach,  looking  too  high  to 
see  Malcolm,  who  was  on  his  knees, 
aimed  a  good  blow  at  the  face  she  did 
see,  in  the  hope,  no  doubt,  of  thus  mak- 
ing her  escape.  But  it  fell  short,  being 
countered  by  Malcolm's  head  in  the 
softest  part  of  her  person,  with  the  result 
of  a  clear  entrance.  The  marquis  burst 
out  laughing,  and  stepped  into  the  room 
with  a  rough  joke.  Malcolm  remained 
in  the  doorway. 

"My  lord,"  said  Mrs.  Catanach,  gath- 
ering herself  together,  and  rising  little 
the  worse,  save  in  temper,  for  the  treat- 
ment he  had  commented  upon,  "  I  have 
a  word  for  your  lordship's  own  ear." 

"Your  right  to  be  there  does  stand  in 
need  of  explanation,"  said  the  marquis. 

She  walked  up  to  him  with  confidence. 
"You  shall  have  an  explanation,  my 
lord,"  she  said — "such  as  shall  be  my 
full  quittance  for  intrusion  even  at  this 
untimely  hour  of  the  night." 

"Say  on,  then,"  returned  his  lordship. 

"Send  that  boy  away,  then,  my  lord." 

"I  prefer  having  him  stay,"  said  the 
marquis. 

"  Not  a  word  shall  cross  my  lips  till 
he's  gone,"  persisted  Mrs.  Catanach. 
"  I  know  him  too  well.  Awa'  wi'  ye,  ye 
deil's  buckie !"  she  continued,  turning 
to  Malcolm.  "  I  ken  mair  aboot  you 
nor  ye  ken  aboot  yersel',  an  deil  hae't  I 
ken  o'  guid  to  you  or  yours !  But  I  's 
gar  ye  lauch  o'  the  wrang  side  o'  yoicr 
mou'  yet,  my  man." 

Malcolm,  who  had  seated  himself  on 
the  threshold,  only  laughed  and  looked 
reference  to  his  master. 

"  Your  lordship  was  never  in  the  way 
of  being  frightened  at  a  woman,"  said 
Mrs.  Catanach,  with  an  ugly  expression 
of  insinuation. 


The  marquis  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"That  depends,"  he  said.  Then  turn- 
ing to  Malcolm,  "Go  along,"  he  added; 
"  only  keep  within  call :  I  may  want 
you." 

"Nane  0'  yer  hearkenin'  at  the  key- 
hole, though,  or  I  s'  lug-mark  ye,  ye 

!"  said  Mrs.  Catanach,  finishing  the 

sentence  none  the  more  mildly  that  she 
did  it  only  in  her  heart. 

"  I  wadna  hae  ye  believe  a  'at  she 
says,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm  with  a  sig- 
nificant smile  as  he  turned  to  creep  away. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
lest  Mrs.  Catanach  should  repossess  her- 
self of  the  key,  drew  it  from  the  lock, 
and  removing  a  few  yards  sat  down  in 
the  passage  by  his  own  door.  A  good 
many  minutes  passed,  during  which  he 
heard  not  a  sound. 

At  length  the  door  opened  and  his 
lordship  came  out.  Malcolm  looked  up, 
and  saw  the  light  of  the  candle  the  mar- 
quis carried  reflected  from  a  face  like 
that  of  a  corpse.  Different  as  they  were, 
Malcolm  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
only  dead  face  he  had  ever  seen.  It 
terrified  him  for  the  moment  in  which  it 
passed  without  looking  at  him. 

"My  lord,"  said  Malcolm  gently. 

His  master  made  no  reply. 

"My  lord,"  cried  Malcolm,  hurriedly 
pursuing  him  with  his  voice,  "am  I  to 
lea'  the  keyes  wi'  yon  hurdon  and  lat 
her  open  what  doors  she  likes  ?" 

"  Go  to  bed,"  said  the  marquis  angrily, 
"  and  leave  the  woman  alone ;"  with 
which  words  he  turned  into  the  adjoin- 
ing passage  and  disappeared. 

Mrs.  Catanach  had  not  come  out  of 
the  wizard's  chamber,  and  for  a  moment 
Malcolm  felt  strongly  tempted  to  lock 
her  in  once  more.  But  he  reflected  that 
he  had  no  right  to  do  so  after  what  his 
lordship  had  said — else,  he  declared  to 
himself,  he  would  have  given  her  at 
least  as  good  a  fright  as  she  seemed  to 
have  given  his  master,  to  whom  he  had 
no  doubt  she  had  been  telling  some  hor- 
rible lies.  He  withdrew,  therefore,  into 
his  room,  to  lie  pondering  again  for  a 
wakeful  while. 

This  horrible  woman  claimed,  then, 
to  know  more  concerning  him  than  his 


MALCOLM. 


177 


so-called  grandfather,  and,  from  her  pro- 
fession, it  was  likely  enough  ;  but  infor- 
mation from  her  was  hopeless,  at  least 
until  her  own  evil  time  came  ;  and  then, 
how  was  any  one  to  believe  what  she 
might  choose  to  say  ?  So  long,  however, 
as  she  did  not  claim  him  for  her  own, 
she  could,  he  thought,  do  him  no  hurt 
he  would  be  afraid  to  meet. 

But  what  could  she  be  about  in  that 
room  gtill  ?  She  might  have  gone, 
though,  without  the  fall  of  her  soft  fat 
foot  once  betraying  her. 

Again  he  got  out  of  bed  and  crept  to 
the  wizard's  door,  and  listened.  Blit  all 
was  still.  He  tried  to  open  it,  but  could 
not :  Mrs.  Catanach  was  doubtless  spend- 
ing the  night  there,  and  perhaps  at  that 
moment  lay,  evil  conscience  and  all,  fast 
asleep  in  the  tent-bed.  He  withdrew 
once  more,  wondering  whether  she  was 
aware  that  he  occupied  the  next  room ; 
and  having  for  the  first  time  taken  care 
to  fasten  his  own  door,  got  into  bed, 
finally  this  time,  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 
THE   HERMIT. 

Malcolm  had  flattered  himself  that 
he  would  at  least  be  able  to  visit  his 
grandfather  the  next  day,  but  instead  of 
that  he  did  not  even  make  an  attempt 
to  rise,  head  as  well  as  foot  aching  so 
much  that  he  felt  unfit  for  the  least  ex- 
ertion— a  phase  of  being  he  had  never 
hitherto  known.  Mrs.  Courthope  insist- 
ed on  advice,  and  the  result  was  that  a 
whole  week  passed  before  he  was  allow- 
ed to  leave  his  room. 

In  the  mean  time  a  whisper  awoke 
and  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  in  all 
directions  through  the  little  burgh  — 
whence  arising  only  one  could  tell,  for 
even  her  mouthpiece,  Miss  Horn's  Jean, 
was  such  a  mere  tool  in  the  midwife's 
hands  that  she  never  doubted  but  Mrs. 
Catanach  was,  as  she  said,  only  telling 
the  tale  as  it  was  told  to  her.  Mrs.  Cat- 
anach, moreover,  absolutely  certain  that 
no  threats  would  render  Jean  capable 
of  holding  her  tongue,  had  so  impressed 
upon  her  the  terrible  consequences  of 
12 


repeating  what  she  had  told  her  that  the 
moment  the  echo  of  her  own  utterances 
began  to  return  to  her  own  ears,  she 
began  to  profess  an  utter  disbelief  in  the 
whole  matter — the  precise  result  Mrs. 
Catanach  had  foreseen  and  intended. 
Now  she  lay  unsuspected  behind  Jean, 
as  behind  a  wall  whose  door  was  built 
up,  for  she  had  so  graduated  her  threats, 
gathering  the  fullest  and  vaguest  terrors 
of  her  supernatural  powers  about  her 
name,  that  while  Jean  dared,  with  many 
misgivings,  to  tamper  with  the  secret 
itself,  she  dared  not  once  mention  Mrs. 
Catanach  in  connection  with  it.  For 
Mrs.  Catanach  herself,  she  never  alluded 
to  the  subject,  and  indeed  when  it  was 
mentioned  in  her  hearing  pretended  to 
avoid  it ;  but  at  the  same  time  she  took 
good  care  that  her  silence  should  be  not 
only  eloquent,  but  discreetly  so — that  is, 
implying  neither  more  nor  less  than  she 
wished  to  be  believed. 

The  whisper,  in  its  first  germinal  sprout, 
was  merely  that  Malcolm  was  not  a  Mac- 
Phail ;  and  even  in  its  second  stage  it 
only  amounted  to  this,  that  neither  was 
he  the  grandson  of  old  Duncan. 

In  the  third  stage  of  its  development 
it  became  the  assertion  that  Malcolm  was 
the  son  of  somebody  of  consequence ; 
and  in  the  fourth,  that  a  certain  person, 
not  yet  named,  lay  under  shrewd  sus- 
picion. 

The  fifth  and  final  form  it  took  was, 
that  Malcolm  was  the  son  of  Mrs.  Stew- 
art of  Gersefell,  who  had  been  led  to  be- 
lieve that  he  died  within  a  few  days  of 
his  birth,  whereas  he  had  in  fact  been 
carried  off  and  committed  to  the  care  of 
Duncan  MacPfeail,  who  drew  a  secret 
annual  stipend  of  no  small  amount  in 
consequence  ;  whence  indeed  his  well- 
known  riches. 

Concerning  this  final  form  of  the  whis- 
per, a  few  of  the  women  of  the  burgh 
believed  or  thought  or  fancied  they  re- 
membered both  the  birth  and  reported 
death  of  the  child  in  question,  also  cer- 
tain rumors  afloat  at  the  time  which  ;",ist 
an  air  of  probability  over  the  new  read- 
ing of  his  fate.  In  circles  more  remote- 
from  authentic  sources  the  general  re- 
port met    with   remarkable    embellish- 


178 


MALCOLM. 


ments,  but  the  framework  of  the  rumor 
— what  I  may  call  the  bones  of  it — re- 
mained undisputed. 

From  Mrs.  Catanach's  behavior  every 
one  believed  that  she  knew  all  about  the 
affair,  but  no  one  had  a  suspicion  that 
she  was  the  hidden  fountain  and  prime 
mover  of  the  report :  so  far  to  the  con- 
trary was  it  that  people  generally  antici- 
pated a  frightful  result  for  her  when  the 
truth  came  to  be  known,  for  Mrs.  Stew- 
art would  follow  her  with  all  the  ven- 
geance of  a  bereaved  tigress.  Some  in- 
deed there  were  who  fancied  that  the 
mother,  if  not  in  full  complicity  with  the 
midwife,  had  at  least  given  her  consent 
to  the  arra7tgement ;  but  these  were  not 
a  little  shaken  in  their  opinion  when  at 
length  Mrs.  Stewart  herself  began  to  fig- 
ure more  immediately  in  the  affair,  and 
it  was  witnessed  that  she  had  herself 
begun  to  search  into  the  report.  Cer- 
tain it  was  that  she  had  dashed  into  the 
town  in  a  carriage  and  pair,  the  horses 
covered  with  foam,  and  had  hurried, 
quite  raised-like,  from  house  to  house 
prosecuting  inquiries.  It  was  said  that 
finding  at  length,  after  much  labor,  that 
she  could  arrive  at  no  certainty  even  as 
to  the  first  promulgator  of  the  assertion, 
she  had  a  terrible  fit  of  crying,  and  pro- 
fessed herself  unable,  much  as  she  would 
have  wished  it,  to  believe  a  word  of  the 
report :  it  was  far  too  good  news  to  be 
true  ;  no  such  luck  ever  fell  to  her  share ; 
and  so  on.  That  she  did  not  go  near 
Duncan  MacPhail  was  accounted  for  by 
the  reflection  that  on  the  supposition 
itself  he  was  of  the  opposite  party,  and 
the  truth  was  not  to  be  looked  for  from 
him. 

At  length  it  came  to  be  known  that, 
strongly  urged  and  battling  with  a  re- 
pugnance all  but  invincible,  she  had 
gone  to  see  Mrs.  Catanach,  and  had 
issued  absolutely  radiant  with  joy,  de- 
claring that  she  was  now  perfectly  satis- 
fied, and  as  soon  as  she  had  communi- 
cated with  the  young  man  himself,  would, 
without  compromising  any  one,  take  what 
legal  steps  might  be  necessary  to  his  rec- 
ognition as  her  son. 

Although,  however,  these  things  had 
been  going  on  all  the  week  that  Malcolm 


was  confined  to  his  room,  they  had  not 
reached  this  last  point  until  after  he  was 
out  again,  and  meantime  not  a  whisper  of 
them  had  come  to  his  or  Duncan's  ears. 
Had  they  been  sti-ll  in  the  Seaton,  one 
or  other  of  the  traveling  ripples  of  talk 
must  have  found  them  ;  but  Duncan  had 
come  and  gone  between  his  cottage  and 
Malcolm's  bedside  without  one  single 
downy  feather  from  the  still  widening 
flap  of  the  wings  of  Fame  ever  dropping 
on  him  ;  and  the  only  persons  who  vis- 
ited Malcolm  besides  were  the  doctor, 
too  discreet  in  his  office  to  mix  himself 
up  with  gossip ;  Mr,  Graham,  to  whom 
nobody,  except  it  had  been  Miss  Horn, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  a  fortnight, 
would  have  dreamed  of  mentioning  such 
a  subject ;  and  Mrs.  Courthope,  not  only 
discreet  like  the  doctor,  but  shy  of  such 
discourse  as  any  reference  to  the  rumor 
must  usher  in  its  train. 

At  length  he  was  sufficiently  recover- 
ed to  walk  to  his  grandfather's  cottage, 
but  only  now  for  the  first  time  had  he  a 
notion  of  how  far  bodily  condition  can 
reach  in  the  oppression  and  overcloud- 
ing of»  the  spiritual  atmosphere.  "Gien 
I  be  like  this,"  he  said  to  himself,  "what 
maun  the  weather  be  like  aneth  yon 
hump  o'  the  laird's  ?"  Now  also  for  the 
first  time  he  understood  what  Mr.  Gra- 
ham had  meant  when  he  told  hiin  that 
he  only  was  a  strong  man  who  was  strong 
in  weakness  ;  he  only  a  brave  man  who, 
inhabiting  trembling,  yet  faced  his  foe ; 
he  only  a  true  man  who,  tempted  by 
good,  yet  abstained. 

Duncan  received  him  with  delight, 
made  him  sit  in  his  own  old  chair,  got 
a  cup  of  tea  and  waited  upon  him  with 
the  tenderness  of  a  woman.  While  he 
drank  his  tea  Malcolm  recounted  his  last 
adventure  in  connection  with  the  wiz- 
ard's chamber. 

"Tat  will  pe  ta  ped  she'll  saw  in  her 
feeshon,"  said  Duncan,  whose  very  eyes 
seemed  to  listen  to  the  talc. 

When  Malcolm  came  to  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach's assertion  that  she  knew  more  of 
him  than  he  did  himself,  "Then  she  pe- 
liefs  ta  voman  does,  my  poy.  We  are 
aall  poth  of  us  in  ta  cfil  voman's  pow- 
er," said  Duncan  sadly. 


MALCOLM. 


179 


"  Never  a  hair,  daddy !"  cried  Malcolm. 
"A'  pooer  's  i'  the  han's  o'  ane,  an'  that's 
no  her  maister.  Ken  she  what  she  likes, 
she  canna  pairt  you  an'  me,  daddy." 

"God  forpid !"  responded  Duncan. 
"But  we  must  pe  on  our  kard." 

Close  by  the  cottage  stood  an  ivy-grown 
bridge,  of  old  leading  the  king's  high- 
way across  the  burn  to  the  Auld  Toon, 
but  now  leading  only  to  the  flower-gar- 
den. Eager  for  the  open  air  of  which  he 
had  been  so  long  deprived,  and  hoping 
that  he  might  meet  the  marquis  or  Lady 
Florimel,  Malcolm  would  have  had  his 
grandfather  accompany  him  thither  ;  but 
Duncan  declined,  for  he  had  not  yet  at- 
tended to  the  lamps,  and  Malcolm  there- 
fore went  alone. 

He  was  slowly  wandering,  where  never 
wind  blew,  betwixt  rows  of  stately  holly- 
hocks, on  which  his  eyes  fed  while  his 
ears  were  filled  with  the  sweet  noises  of 
a  little  fountain  issuing  from  the  upturn- 
ed beak  of  a  marble  swan,  which  a  mar- 
ble urchin  sought  in  vain  to  check  by 
squeezing  the  long  throat  of  the  bird, 
when  the  sounds  of  its  many-toned  fall 
in  the  granite  basin  seemed  suddenly 
centupled  on  every  side,  and  Malcolm 
found  himself  caught  in  a  tremendous 
shower.  Prudent  enough  to  avoid  get- 
ting wet  in  the  present  state  of  his  health, 
he  made  for  an  arbor  he  saw  near  by  on 
the  steep  side  of  the  valley — one  he  had 
never  before  happened  to  notice. 

Now  it  chanced  that  Lord  Lossie  him- 
self was  in  the  garden,  and,  caught  also 
by  the  rain  while  feeding  some  pet  gold- 
fishes in  a  pond,  betook  himself  to  the 
same  summer-house,  following  Malcolm. 

Entering  the  arbor,  Malcolm  was  about 
to  seat  himself  until  the  shower  should 
be  over,  when,  perceiving  a  mossy  arch- 
ed entrance  to  a  gloomy  recess  in  the 
rock  behind,  he  went  to  peep  into  it, 
curious  to  see  what  sort  of  a  place  it 
was. 

Now  the  foolish  whim  of  a  past  genera- 
tion had,  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
recess  and  sideways  from  the  door,  seat- 
ed the  figure  of  a  hermit,  whose  jointed 
limbs  were  so  furnished  with  springs  and 
so  connected  with  the  stone  that  floored 
the  entrance,  that  as  soon  as  a  foot  press- 


ed the  threshold  he  rose,  advanced  a  step 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

The  moment,  therefore,  Malcolm  step- 
ped in,  up  rose  a  pale,  hollow-cheeked, 
emaciated  man,  with  eyes  that  stared 
glassily,  made  a  long  skeleton-like  stride 
toward  him,  and  held  out  a  huge  bony 
hand,  rather,  as  it  seemed,  with  the  in- 
tent of  clutching  than  of  greeting  him. 
An  unaccountable  horror  seized  him : 
with  a  gasp  which  had  nearly  become 
a  cry  he  staggered  backward  out  of  the 
cave.  It  seemed  to  add  to  his  horror 
that  the  man  did  not  follow — remained 
lurking  in  the  obscurity  behind.  In  the 
arbor  Malcolm  turned — turned  to  flee, 
though  why  or  from  what  he  had  scarce 
an  idea. 

But  when  he  turned  he  encountered 
the  marquis,  who  was  just  entering  the 
arbor.  "  Well,  MacPhail,"  he  said  kind- 
ly, "I'm  glad — "  But  his  glance  be- 
came fixed  in  a  stare  :  he  changed  color, 
and  did  not  finish  his  sentence. 

"I  beg  yer  lordship's  pardon,"  said 
Malcolm,  wondering  through  all  his  per- 
turbation at  the  look  he  had  brought  on 
his  master's  face :  "  I  didna  ken  ye  was 
at  han'." 

"What  the  devil  makes  you  look  like 
that?"  said  the  marquis,  plainly  with  an 
effort  to  recover  himself. 

Malcolm  gave  a  hurried  glance  over 
his  shoulder. 

"Ah,  I  see  !"  said  his  lordship  with  a 
mechanical  kind  of  smile,  very  unlike 
his  usual  one:  "you've  never  been  in 
there  before  ?" 

"  No,  my  lord." 

"And  you  got  a  fright  ?" 

"  Ken  ye  wha's  that  in  there,  my  lord?" 

"You  booby!  It's  nothing  but  a  dum- 
my with  springs,  and — and — all  damned 
tomfoolery." 

While  he  spoke  his  mouth  twitched 
oddly,  but  instead  of  his  bursting  into 
the  laugh  of  enjoyment  natural  to  him 
at  the  discomfiture  of  another,  his  mouth 
kept  on  twitching  and  his  eyes  staring. 

"Ye  maun  hae  seen  him  yersel'  ower 
my  shouther,  my  lord,"  hinted  Malcolm. 

"  I  saw  your  face,  and  that  was  enough 
to — "  But  the  marquis  did  not  finish 
the  sentence. 


iSo 


MALCOLM. 


"Weel,  'cep  it  was  the  oonnaiteral  luik 
o'  he  thing — no  human,  an'  yet  sae 
dooms  hke  it — I  cannot  accoont  for  the 
grue  or  the  trimmle  'at  cam  ower  me, 
my  lord.  I  never  fan'  onything  hke  it  i' 
my  hfe  afore.  An'  even  noo  'at  I  unner- 
stan'  what  it  is,  I  kenna  what  wad  gar  me 
luik  the  boody  [bogie)  i'  the  face  again." 

"  Go  in  at  once,"  said  the  marquis 
fiercely. 

Malcolm  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes : 
"  Ye  mean  what  ye  say,  my  lord  ?" 

"Yes,  by  God!"  replied  the  marquis, 
with  an  expression  I  can  describe  only  as 
of  almost  savage  solemnity. 

Malcolm  stood  silent  for  one  moment. 

"Do  you  think  I'll  have  a  man  about 
me  that  has  no  more  courage  than — than 
—  a  —  woman?"  said  his  master,  con- 
cluding with  an  effort. 

"I  was  jist  turnin'  ower  an  auld  ques- 
ton,  my  lord  —  whether  it  be  lawfu'  to 
obey  a  tyrant.  But  it's  nae  worth  stan'- 
in'  oot  upo'.     I  s'  gang." 

He  turned  to  the  arch,  placed  a  hand 
on  each  side  of  it,  and  leaning  forward 
with  outstretched  neck  peeped  cautious- 
ly in,  as  if  it  were  the  den  of  a  wild  beast. 
The  moment  he  saw  the  figure,  seated 
on  a  stool,  he  was  seized  with  the  same 
unaccountable  agitation,  and  drew  back 
shivering. 

"Go  in  !"  shouted  the  marquis. 

Most  Britons  would  count  obedience 
to  such  a  command  slavish,  but  Mal- 
colm's idea  of  liberty  differed  so  far  from 
that  of  most  Britons  that  he  felt  if  now 
he  refused  to  obey  the  marquis  he  might 
be  a  slave  for  ever  ;  for  he  had  already 
learned  to  recognize  and  abhor  that  sla- 
very which  is  not  the  less  the  root  of  all 
other  slaveries  that  it  remains  occult  in 
proportion  to  its  potency  —  self-slavery. 
He  must  and  would  conquer  this  whim, 
antipathy  or  whatever  the  loathing  might 
be :  it  was  a  grand  chance  given  him  of 
proving  his  will  supreme — that  is,  him- 
self a  free  man.  He  drew  himself  up 
with  a  full  breath  and  stepped  within 
the  arch.  Up  rose  the  horror  again, 
jerked  itself  toward  him  with  a  clank 
and  held  out  its  hand.  Malcolm  seized 
it  with  such  a  gripe  that  its  fingers  came 
off  in  his  grasp. 


"Will  that  du,  my  lord?"  he  said 
calmly,  turning  a  face  rigid  with  hidden 
conflict  and  gleaming  white  from  the 
framework  of  the  arch  upon  his  master, 
whose  eyes  seemed  to  devour  him. 

"Come  out,"  said  the  marquis  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  belong  to  some  one 
else. 

"  I  hae  blaudit  yer  playock,  my  lord." 
said  Malcolm  ruefully  as  he  stepped 
from  the  cave  and  held  out  the  fingers. 

Lord  Lossie  turned  and  left  the  arbor. 

Had  Malcolm  followed  his  inclination 
he  would  have  fled  from  it,  but  he  mas- 
tered himself  still,  and  walked  quietly  out. 
The  marquis  was  pacing,  with  downbent 
head  and  hasty  strides,  up  the  garden  : 
Malcolm  turned  the  other  way. 

The  shower  was  over,  and  the  sun  was 
drawing  out  millions  of  mimic  suns  from 
the  drops  that  hung  for  a  moment  ere 
they  fell  from  flower  and  bush  and  great 
tree.  But  Malcolm  saw  nothing.  Per- 
plexed with  himself,  and  more  perplexed 
yet  with  the  behavior  of  his  master,  he 
went  back  to  his  grandfather's  cottage, 
and  as  soon  as  he  came  in  recounted  to 
him  the  whole  occurrence. 

"He  had  a  feeshon,"  said  the  bard 
with  wide  eyes.  "  He  comes  of  a  race 
that  sees." 

"What  cud  the  veesion  hae  been, 
daddy?" 

"Tat  she  knows  not,  for  ta  feeshon  tid 
not  come  to  her,"  said  the  piper  solemnly. 

Had  the  marquis  had  his  vision  in 
London,  he  would  have  gone  straight  to 
his  study,  as  he  called  it,  not  without  a 
sense  of  the  absurdity  involved,  opened 
a  certain  cabinet  and  drawn  out  a  cer- 
tain hidden  drawer :  being  at  Lossie,  he 
walked  up  the  glen  of  the  burn  to  the 
bare  hill  overlooking  the  House,  the  roy- 
al burgh,  the  great  sea  and  his  own  lands 
lying  far  and  wide  around  him.  But  all 
the  time  he  saw  nothing  of  these :  he 
saw  but  the  low  white  forehead  of  his 
vision,  a  mouth  of  sweetness  and  hazel 
eyes  that  looked  into  his  very  soul. 

Malcolm  walked  back  to  the  House, 
clomb  the  narrow  duct  of  an  ancient 
stone  stair  that  went  screwing  like  a 
great  auger  through  the  pile  from  top  to 
bottom,  sought  the  wide  lonely  garret, 


MALCOLM. 


i8i 


flung  himself  upon  his  bed,  and  from 
his  pillow  gazed  through  the  little  dor- 
mer window  on  the  pale  blue  skies  fleck- 
ed with  cold  white  clouds,  while  in  his 
mind's  eye  he  saw  the  foliage  beneath 
burning  in  the  flames  of  slow  decay, 
diverse  as  if  each  of  the  seven  in  the 
prismatic  chord  had  chosen  and  seared 
its  own  :  the  first  nor'-easter  that  drove 
the  flocks  of  Neptune  on  the  sands  would 
sweep  its  ashes  away.  Life,  he  said  to 
himself,  was  but  a  poor  gray  kind  of 
thing,  after  all.  The  peacock  summer 
had  folded  its  gorgeous  train,  and  the 
soul  within  him  had  lost  its  purple  and 
green,  its  gold  and  blue.  He  never 
thought  of  asking  how  much  of  the  sad- 
ness was  owing  to  bodily  conditions  with 
which  he  was  little  acquainted,  and  to 
compelled  idleness  in  one  accustomed 
to  an  active  life.  But  if  he  had,  the  sor- 
rowful probabilities  of  life  would  have 
seemed  just  the  same.  And  indeed  he 
might  have  argued  that  to  be  subject  to 
any  evil  from  a  cause  inadequate  only 
involves  an  absurdity  that  embitters  the 
pain  by  its  mockery.  He  had  yet  to 
learn  what  faith  can  do,  in  the  revela- 
tion of  the  Moodless,  for  the  subjugation 
of  mood  to  will. 

As  he  lay  thus  weighed  upon,  rather 
than  pondering,  his  eye  fell  on  the  bunch 
of  keys  which  he  had  taken  from  the 
door  of  the  wizard's  chamber,  and  he 
wondered  that  Mrs.  Courthope  had  not 
seen  and  taken  them — apparently  had 
not  missed  them.  And  the  chamber 
doomed  to  perpetual  desertion  lying  all 
the  time  open  to  any  stray  foot !  Once 
more,  at  least,  he  must  go  and  turn  the 
key  in  the  lock. 

As  he  went  the  desire  awoke  to  look 
again  into  the  chamber,  for  that  night 
he  had  neither  light  nor  time  enough  to 
gain  other  than  the  vaguest  impression 
of  it. 

But  for  no  lifting  of  the  latch  would 
the  door  open.  How  could  the  woman 
— witch  she  must  be — have  locked  it? 
He  proceeded  to  unlock  it.  He  tried 
one  key,  then  another.     He  went  over 


the  whole  bunch.  Mystery  upon  mys- 
tery !  not  one  of  them  would  turn.  Be- 
thinking himself,  he  began  to  try  them 
the  other  way,  and  soon  found  one  to 
throw  the  bolt  on.  He  turned  it  in  the 
contrary  direction,  and  it  threw  the  bolt 
off:  still  the  door  remained  immovable. 
It  must  then — awful  thought ! — be  fast 
on  the  inside.  Was  the  woman's  body 
lying  there  behind  those  check  curtains  ? 
Would  it  lie  there  until  it  vanished,  like 
that  of  the  wizard  —  vanished  utterly, 
bones  and  all — to  a  little  dust,  which  one 
day  a  housemaid  might  sweep  up  in  a 
pan  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  if  she  had  got 
shut  in,  would  she  not  have  made  noise 
enough  to  be  heard  ?  He  had  been  day 
and  night  in  the  next  room.  But  it  was 
not  a  spring  lock,  and  how  could  that 
have  happened  ?  Or  would  she  not  have 
been  missed  and  inquiry  made  after  her  ? 
Only  such  an  inquiry  might  well  have 
never  turned  in  the  direction  of  Lossie 
House,  and  he  might  never  have  heard 
of  it  if  it  had. 

Anyhow,  he  must  do  something  ;  and 
the  first  rational  movement  would  clear- 
ly be  to  find  out  quietly  for  himself 
whether  the  woman  was  actually  missing 
or  not. 

Tired  as  he  was,  he  set  out  at  once  for 
the  burgh,  and  the  first  person  he  saw 
was  Mrs.  Catanach  standing  on  her  door- 
step and  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand 
as  she  looked  away  out  to  the  horizon 
over  the  roofs  of  the  Seaton.  He  went 
no  farther. 

In  the  evening  he  found  an  opportunity 
of  telling  his  master  how  the  room  was 
strangely  closed,  but  his  lordship  pooh- 
poohed,  and  said  something  must  have 
gone  wrong  with  the  clumsy  old  lock. 

With  vague  foresight,  Malcolm  took 
its  key  from  the  bunch,  and,  watching 
his  opportunity,  unseen  hung  the  rest 
on  their  proper  nail  in  the  housekeeper's 
room.  Then,  having  made  sure  that  the 
door  of  the  wizard's  chamber  was  locked, 
he  laid  the  key  away  in  his  own  chest. 


I=^K.T     I2C. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 
MR.   CAIRNS  AND  THE  MARQUIS. 

'■"l^HE  religious  movement  amongst  the 
J-  fisher-folk  was  still  going  on.  Their 
meeting  was  now  held  often  during  the 
week,  and  at  the  same  hour  on  the  Sun- 
day as  other  people  met  at  church.  Nor 
was  it  any  wonder  that,  having  partici- 
pated in  the  fervor  which  pervaded  their 
gatherings  in  the  cave,  they  should  have 
come  to  feel  the  so-called  divine  service 
in  the  churches  of  their  respective  par- 
ishes a  dull,  cold,  lifeless  and  therefore 
unhelpful  ordinance,  and  at  length,  re- 
garding it  as  composed  of  beggarly  ele- 
ments, breathing  of  bondage,  to  fill  the 
Baillies'  Barn  three  times  every  Sunday 
— a  reverential  and  eager  congregation. 
Now,  had  they  confined  their  prayers 
and  exhortations  to  those  which,  from 
an  ecclesiastical  point  of  view,  constitute 
the  unholy  days  of  the  week,  Mr.  Cairns 
would  have  neither  condescended  nor 
presumed  to  take  any  notice  of  them ; 
but  when  the  bird's-eye  view  from  his 
pulpit  began  to  show  patches  of  bare 
boards  where  human  forms  had  wont  to 
appear,  and  when  these  plague-spots  had 
not  only  lasted  through  successive  Sun- 
days, but  had  begun  to  spread  more  rap- 
idly, he  began  to  think  it  time  to  put  a 
stop  to  such  fanatical  aberrations,  the 
result  of  pride  and  spiritual  presumption 
— hostile  toward  God  and  rebellious  to- 
ward their  lawful  rulers  and  instructors. 
For  what  an  absurdity  it  was  that  the 
Spirit  of  truth  should  have  anything  to 
communicate  to  illiterate  and  vulgar  per- 
sons except  through  the  mouths  of  those 
to  whom  had  been  committed  the  dispen- 
sation of  the  means  of  grace  !  Whatever 
wind  might  blow,  except  from  their  bel- 
lows, was  to  Mr.  Cairns,  at  least,  not  even 
of  doubtful  origin.  Indeed,- the  priests 
of  every  religion,  taken  in  class,  have 
been  the  slowest  to  recognize  the  wind 
of  the  Spirit,  and  the  quickest  to  tell 
182 


whence  the  blowing  came  and  whither 
it  went,  even  should  it  have  blown  first 
on  their  side  of  the  hedge.  And  how 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  How  should  they 
recognize  as  a  revival  the  motions  of  life 
unfelt  in  their  own  hearts,  where  it  was 
most  required  ?  What  could  they  know 
of  doubts  and  fears,  terrors  and  humil- 
iations, agonies  of  prayer,  ecstasies  of 
relief  and  thanksgiving,  who  regarded 
their  high  calling  as  a  profession,  with 
social  claims  and  ecclesiastical  rights, 
and  even  as  such  had  so  little  respect 
for  it  that  they  talked  of  it  themselves  as 
the  cloth  ?  How  could  such  a  man  as 
Mr.  Cairns,  looking  down  from  the  height 
ofhis  great  soberness  and  the  dignity 
of  possessing  the  oracles  and  the  ordi- 
nances, do  other  than  contemn  the  en- 
thusiasms and  excitements  of  ignorant 
repentance  ?  How  could  such  as  he 
recognize  in  the  babble  of  babes  the 
slightest  indication  of  the  revealing  of 
truths  hid  from  the  wise  and  prudent  ? — 
especially  since  their  rejoicing  also  was 
that  of  babes,  hence  carnal,  and  accom- 
panied by  all  the  weakness  and  some  of 
the  vices  which  it  had  required  the  ut- 
most energy  of  the  prince  of  apostles 
to  purge  from  one  at  least  of  the  early 
churches. 

He  might,  however,  have  sought  some 
foundation  for  a  true  judgment  in  a  per- 
sonal knowledge  of  their  doctrine  and 
collective  behavior ;  but  instead  of  go- 
ing to  hear  what  the  babblers  had  to 
say,  and  thus  satisfying  himself  whether 
the  leaders  of  the  movement  spoke  the 
words  of  truth  and  soberness  or  of  dis- 
cord and  denial — whether  their  teaching 
and  their  prayers  were  on  the  side  of 
order  and  law  or  tending  to  sedition — 
he  turned  a  ready  ear  to  all  reports  afloat 
concerning  them,  and,  misjudging  them 
utterly,  made  up  his  mind  to  use  all  /aw- 
ful means  for  putting  an  end  to  their 
devotions  and  exhortations.      One  fact 


MALCOLM. 


I  S3 


he  either  had  not  heard  or  made  no  ac- 
count of — that  the  pubhc-hoiises  in  the 
villages  whence  these  assemblies  were 
chiefly  gathered  had  already  come  to  be 
all  but  deserted. 

Alone,  then,  and  unsupported  by  one 
of  his  brethren  of  the  presbytery,  even 
of  those  who  suffered  like  himself,  he  re- 
paired to  Lossie  House  and  laid  before 
the  marquis  the  whole  matter  from  his 
point  of  view — that  the  tabernacles  of 
the  Lord  were  deserted  for  dens  and 
caves  of  the  earth  ;  that  fellows  so  void 
of  learning  as  not  to  be  able  to  put  a 
sentence  together  or  talk  decent  English 
(a  censure  at  which  Lord  Lossie  smiled, 
for  his  ears  were  accustomed  to  a  differ- 
ent quality  of  English  from  that  which 
now  invaded  them)  took  upon  them- 
selves to  expound  the  Scriptures  ;  that 
they  taught  antinomianism  (for  which 
assertion,  it  must  be  confessed,  there  was 
some  appa7-ent  ground)  and  were  at  the 
same  time  suspected  of  Arminianism  and 
anabaptism  ;  that,  in  a  word,  they  were 
a  terrible  disgrace  to  the  godly  and  hith- 
erto sober-minded  parishes  in  which  the 
sect,  if  it  might  be  dignified  with  even 
such  a  name,  had  sprung  up. 

The  marquis  listened  with  much  in- 
difference and  some  impatience :  what 
did  he  or  any  other  gentleman  care  about 
such  things  ?  Besides,  he  had  a  friendly 
feeling  toward  the  fisher-folk,  and  a  de- 
cided disinclination  to  meddle  with  their 
liberty  either  of  action  or  utterance. 

"But  what  have  I  to  do  with  it,  Mr. 
Cairns  ?"  he  said  when  the  stream  of  the 
parson's  utterance  had  at  length  ceased 
to  flow.  "I  am  not  a  theologian;  and 
if  I  were,  I  do  not  see  how  that  even 
would  give  me  a  right  to  interfere  with 
these  people." 

"In  such  times  of  insubordination  as 
these,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Cairns,  "when 
every  cadger  thinks  himself  as  good  as 
an  earl,  it  is  more  than  desirable  that  not 
a  single  foothold  should  be  lost.  There 
must  be  a  general  election  soon,  my  lord. 
Besides,  these  men  abuse  your  lordship's 
late  hospitality,  declaring  it  has  had  the 
worst  possible  influence  on  the  i^orals 
of  the  people." 

A  shadow  of  truth  rendered  this  as- 


sertion the  worse  misrepresentation  :  no 
blame  to  the  marquis  had  even  been 
hinted  at — the  speakers  had  only  ani- 
madverted on  the  fishermen  who  had 
got  drunk  cm  the  occasion. 

"Still,"  said  the  marquis  smiling,  for 
the  reported  libel  did  not  wound  him 
very  deeply,  "what  ground  of  right  have 
I  to  interfere  ?" 

"The  shore  is  your  property,  my  lord 
— every  rock  and  every  buckie  [spiral 
shell)  upon  it;  the  caves  are  your  own 
— every  stone  and  pebble  of  them  :  you 
can  prohibit  all  such  assemblies." 

"And  what  good  would  that  do?  They 
would  only  curse  me  and  go  somewhere 
else." 

"Where  could  they  go  where  the  same 
law  wouldn't  hold  against  them,  my  lord  ? 
The  coast  is  yours  for  miles  and  miles  on 
both  sides." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  should  be." 

"  Why  not,  my  lord  ?  It  has  belonged 
to  your  family  from  time  immemorial, 
and  will  belong  to  it,  I  trust,  while  the 
moon  endureth." 

"They  used  to  say,"  said  the  marquis 
thoughtfully,  as  if  he  were  recalling 
something  he  had  heard  long  ago,  "that 
the  earth  was  the  Lord's." 

"This  part  of  it  is  Lord  Lossie's,"  said 
Mr.  Cairns,  combining  the  jocular  with 
the  complimentary  in  one  irreverence ; 
but  as  if  to  atone  for  the  freedom  he  had 
taken,  "The  Deity  has  committed  it  to 
the  great  ones  of  the  earth  to  rule  for 
him,"  he  added,  with  a  devout  obeisance 
to  the  delegate. 

Lord  Lossie  laughed  inwardly. 

"You  can  even  turn  them  out  of  their 
houses  if  you  please,  my  lord,"  he  super- 
added. 

"God  forbid  !"  said  the  marquis. 

"A  threat,  the  merest  hint,  of  such  a 
measure  is  all  that  would  be  necessary." 

"  But  are  you  certain  of  the  truth  of 
these  accusations.''" 

"My  lord!" 

"Of  course  you  believe  them,  or  you 
would  not  repeat  them,  but  it  does  not 
follow  that  they  are  fact." 

"They  are  matter  of  common  report, 
my  lord.  What  I  have  stated  is  in  every 
one's  mouth." 


iS4 


MALCOLM. 


"  But  you  have  not  yourself  heard  any 
of  their  sermons,  or  what  do  they  call 
them?" 

"No,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Cairns,  hold- 
ing up  his  white  hands  in  repudiation  of 
the  idea  :  "it  would  scarcely  accord  with 
my  position  to  act  the  spy." 

"So  to  keep  yourself  immaculate  you 
take  all  against  them  for  granted  ?  I 
have  no  such  scruples,  however.  I  will 
go  and  see,  or  rather  hear,  what  they 
are  about :  after  that  I  shall  be  in  a  po- 
sition to  judge." 

"Your  lordship's  presence  will  put  them 
on  their  guard." 

"If  the  mere  sight  of  me  is  a  check," 
returned  the  marquis,  "extreme  measures 
will  hardly  be  necessary." 

He  spoke  definitively,  and  made  a 
slight  movement  which  his  visitor  ac- 
cepted as  his  dismissal.  He  laughed 
aloud  when  the  door  closed,  for  the  spirit 
of  what  the  Germans  call  Schadeiifreiide 
was  never  far  from  his  elbow,  and  he  re- 
joiced in  the  parson's  discomfiture.  It 
was  in  virtue  of  his  simplicity,  precluding 
discomfiture,  that  Malcolm  could  hold 
his  own  with  him  so  well.  For  him  he 
now  sent. 

"Well,  MacPhail,"  he  said  kindly  as 
the  youth  entered,  "how  is  that  foot  of 
yours  getting  on  ?" 

"  Brawly,  my  lord  :  there's  naething 
muckle  the  maitter  wi'  hit  or  me  aither, 
noo  'at  we're  up.  But  I  was  jist  near- 
han'  deid  o'  ower-muckle  bed." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  come  down  out  of 
that  cockloft  ?"  said  the  marquis,  drop- 
ping his  eyes. 

"Na,  my  lord:  I  dinna  care  aboot 
partin'  wi'  my  neebor  yet." 

"What  neighbor?" 

"  Ow,  the  auld  warlock,  or  whatever  it 
may  be  'at  bauds  a  reemish  [ruvunage) 
there." 

"  W^hat !  is  he  troublesome  next  ?" 

"Ow,  na  !  I'm  no  thinkin'  't ;  but  'deed 
^I  dinna  ken,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm. 

"What  do  you  mean,  then  i'" 

"Gicn  yer  lordship  wad  alloo  me  to 
force  yon  door,  I  wad  be  better  able  to 
tell  ye." 

"Then  the  old  man  is  noi  quiet?" 

"There's  something  no  quaiet." 


"  Nonsense  !  It's  all  your  imagination, 
depend  on  it." 

"I  dinna  think  it." 

"  What  do  you  think,  then  ?  You're 
not  afraid  of  ghosts,  surely  ?" 

"No  muckle.  I  hae  naething  mair 
upo'  my  conscience  nor  I  can  bide  i'  the 
deidest  o'  the  nicht." 

"  Then  you  think  ghosts  come  of  a  bad 
conscience  —  a  kind  of  moral  delirium 
tremens,  eh  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken,  my  lord  ;  but  that's  the 
only  kin'  o'  ghaist  I  wad  be  fleyed  at — 
at  least,  'at  I  wad  rin  frae.  I  wad  a 
heap  raither  hae  a  ghaist  i'  my  hoose 
nor  ane  far'er  benn.  An  ill  man,  or  a 
wuman  like  Mistress  Catanach,  for  en- 
stance,  'at  's  a'  boady,  'cep'  what  o'  her 
's  deevil — " 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  the  marquis  angri- 
ly, but  Malcolm  went  on  : 

" — maun  be  jist  fu'  o'  ghaists  !  An', 
for  onything  I  ken,  that'll  be  what  maks 
ghaists  o'  themsel's  efter  they're  deid, 
settin'  them  walkin\  as  they  ca'  't.  It's 
full  waur  nor  bein'  possessed  wi'  deevils, 
an'  maun  be  a  hantle  mair  ooncoamfort- 
able.  But  I  wad  hae  yon  door  opent, 
my  lord." 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  the  marquis 
once  more,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"You  must  leave  that  room.  If  I  hear 
anything  more  about  noises  or  that  sort 
of  rubbish,  I  shall  insist  upon  it.  I  sent 
for  you  now,  however,  to  ask  you  about 
these  clandestine  meetings  of  the  fisher- 
folk." 

"  Clandestine,  my  lord  ?  There's  no 
cla7n  aboot  them  but  the  clams  upo'  the 
rocks." 

The  marquis  was  not  etymologist 
enough  to  understand  Malcolm's  poor 
pun,  and  doubtless  thought  it  worse  than 
it  was.  "I  don't  want  any  fooling,"  he 
said.  "Of  course  you  know  these  peo- 
ple ?" 

"  Ilka  man,  wuman  an'  bairn  o'  them," 
answered  Malcolm. 

"And  what  sort  are  they  ?" 

"Siclike  as  ye  micht  expec'." 

"  That's  not  a  very  luminous  answer." 

"Weel,  they're  nae  waur  nor  ither 
fowk,  to  begin  wi ;  an'  gien  this  bauds 
they'll  be  better  nor  mony." 


MALCOLM. 


185 


"What  sort  arc  their  leaders?" 
"Guid,  respectable  fowk,  my  lord." 
"Then    there's    not    much    harm   in 
them .?" 

"There's  nane  but  what  they  wad  fain 
be  rid  o'.  I  canna  say  as  muckle  for  a' 
'at  hings  on  to  them.  There's  o'  them, 
nae  doobt,  wha  wad  fain  win  to  h'aven 
ohn  left  their  sins  ahin'  them,  but  they 
get  nae  encouragement  fra  Maister  Mac- 
Leod. Blue  Peter,  'at  gangs  oot  wi'  's  i' 
yer  lordship's  boat  —  he's  ane  o'  their 
best  men,  though  he  never  gangs  ayont 
prayin',  I'm  tauld." 

"Which  is  far  enough,  surely,"  said 
his  lordship,  who,  belonging  to  the  Epis- 
copal Church,  had  a  different  idea  con- 
cerning the  relative  dignities  of  preach- 
ing and  praying. 

"Ay,  for  a  body's  sel',  surely;  but 
maybe  no  aye  eneuch  for  ither  fowk," 
answered  Malcolm,  always  ready  after 
his  clumsy  fashion. 

"Have  you  been  to  any  of  these  meet- 
ings ?" 

"  I  was  at  the  first  twa,  my  lord." 
"Why  not  more  ?" 

"  I  didna  care  muckle  aboot  them,  an' 
I  hae  aye  plenty  to  du.  Besides,  I  can 
get  mair  oot  o'  Maister  Graham  wi'  twa 
words  o'  a  queston  nor  the  haill  crew 
o'  them  could  tell  me  atween  this  an' 
eternity." 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  trust  you,"  said 
the  marquis  slowly,  with  an  air  of  ques- 
tion rather  than  of  statement. 
"Ye  may  du  that,  my  lord." 
"You  mean  I  may  with  safety?" 
"I  div  mean  that  same,  my  lord." 
"You  can  hold  your  tongue,  then  ?" 
"I  can,  an'  will,  my  lord,"  said  Mal- 
colm ;  but  added  in  haste,  "  'cep'  it  in- 
terfere  wi'    ony  forgane   agreement  or 
nat'ral  obligation." 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  Malcolm 
was  in  the  habit  of  discussing  all  sorts 
of  questions  with  Mr.  Graham  :  some  of 
the  formulas  wrought  out  between  them 
he  had  made  himself  thoroughly  master 
of. 

"By  Jupiter!"  exclaimed  the  marquis 
with  a  pause  of  amusement.  "Well," 
he  went  on,  "  I  suppose  I  must  take  you 
on  your  own  terms.     They've  been  ask- 


ing me  to  put  a  stop  to  these  conven- 
ticles." 

"Wha  has,  my  lord  ?" 

"That's  my  business." 

"Lat  it  be  nae  ither  body's,  my  lord." 

"That's  my  intention.  I  told  him  I 
would  go  and  judge  for  myself." 

"  Jist  like  yer  lordship  !" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"  I  was  aye  sure  ye  was  for  fair  play, 
my  lord." 

"  It's  little  enough  I've  ever  had,"  said 
the  marquis. 

"  Sae  lang's  we  gie  plenty,  my  lord,  it 
maitters  less  hoo  muckle  we  get.  A'body 
likes  to  get  it." 

"That  doctrine  won't  carry  you  far, 
my  lad." 

"  Far  eneuch,  gien  't  cairry  me  throu', 
my  lord." 

"  How  absolute  the  knave  is  !"  said  his 
lordship  good-humoredly.  "Well,  but," 
he  resumed,  "  about  these  fishermen :  I'm 
only  afraid  Mr.  Cairns  was  right." 

"What  said  he,  my  lord  ?" 

"That  when  they  saw  me  there  they 
would  fit  their  words  to  my  ears." 

"  I  ken  them  better  nor  ony  black-coat 
atween  Cromarty  an'  Peterheid,  an'  I  can 
tell  yer  lordship  there  winna  be  ae  word 
o'  differ  for  your  bein'  there." 

"  If  only  I  could  be  there  and  not  there 
both  at  once !  There's  no  other  sure 
mode  of  testing  your  assertion.  What 
a  pity  the  only  thorough  way  should  be 
an  impossible  one!" 

"  To  a'  practical  purposes  it's  easy 
eneuch,  my  lord.  Jist  gang  ohn  be  seen 
the  first  nicht,  an'  the  neist  gang  in  a 
co'ch  an'  fower.     Syne  compaur." 

"Quite  satisfactory,  no  doubt,  if  I 
could  bring  myself  to  do  it ;  but,  though 
I  said  I  would,  I  don't  like  to  interfere 
so  far  even  as  to  go  at  all." 

"At  ony  public  meetin',  my  lord,  ye 
hae  as  guid  a  richt  to  be  present  as  the 
puirest  body  i'  the  Ian'.  An'  forbye  that, 
as  lord  o'  the  place  ye  hae  a  richt  to  ken 
what's  gaein'  on.  I  dinna  ken  hoo  far 
the  richt  o'  interferin'  gangs :  that's  an- 
ither  thing  a'thegither." 

"  I  see  you're  a  thorough-going  rebel 
yourself." 

"Naething  o'  the  kin',  my  lord.     I'm 


iS6 


MALCOLM. 


only  sae  far  o'  yer  lordship's  min'  'at  I 
like  fair  play — gien  a  body  could  only  be 
aye  richt  sure  what  was  fair  play  !" 

"  Yes,  there's  the  very  point :  certainly, 
at  least,  when  the  question  comes  to  be 
eavesdropping  —  not  to  mention  that  I 
could  never  condescend  to  play  the  spy." 

"What  a  body  has  a  richt  to  hear  he  may 
hear  as  he  likes,  either  shawin'  himsel' 
or  hidin'  himsel'.  An'  it's  the  only  plan 
'at  's  fair  to  them,  my  lord.  It's  no  's 
gien  yer  lordship  was  lyin'  in  wait  to  du 
them  a  mischeef :  ye  want  raither  to  du 
them  a  kin'ness  an'  tak  their  pairt." 

"I  don't  know  that,  Malcolm.  It  de- 
pends." 

"  It's  plain  yer  lordship's  prejudeezed 
i'  their  fawvor.  Ony  gait,  I'm  sartin  it's 
fair  play  ye  want ;  an'  I  canna  for  the 
life  o'  me  see  a  hair  o'  wrang  i'  yer  lord- 
ship's gaein'  m  a  cogue,  as  auld  Tammy 
Dyster  ca's  't ;  for  at  the  warst  ye  cud 
only  interdic  them,  an'  that  ye  cud  du  a' 
the  same  whether  ye  gaed  or  no.  An' 
gien  ye  be  sae  wulled  I  can  tak  you  an' 
my  leddy  whaur  ye'll  hear  ilka  word  'at 
's  uttered,  an'  no  a  body  get  a  glimp  o' 
ye,  mair  nor  gien  ye  was  sittin'  at  yer 
ain  fireside  as  ye  are  the  noo." 

"That  does  make  a  difference,"  said 
the  marquis,  a  great  part  of  whose  un- 
willingness arose  from  the  dread  of  dis- 
covery.    "It  would  be  very  amusing." 

"  I'll  no  promise  ye  that,"  returned 
Malcolm :  "  I  dinna  ken  aboot  that. 
There's  jist  ae  objection,  hooever:  ye 
wad  hae  to  gang  a  guid  hoor  afore  they 
begoud  to  gaither.  An'  there's  aye  laad- 
dies  aboot  the  place  sin'  they  turned  it  in- 
till  a  kirk,"  he  added  thoughtfully.  "  But," 
he  resumed,  "we  cud  manage  them." 

"  How  ?" 

"  I  wad  get  my  gran'father  to  strik' 
up  wi'  a  spring  upo'  the  pipes  o'  the  ither 
side  o'  the  bored  craig,  or  lat  aff  a  shot 
o'  the  sweevil :  they  wad  a'  rin  to  see, 
an'  i'  the  mean  time  we  cud  Ian'  ye  frae 
the  cutter.  We  wad  hae  ye  in  an'  oot  o' 
sicht  in  a  moment — Blue  Peter  an'  me — 
as  quaict  as  gien  ye  war  ghaists  an'  the 
hoor  midnicht." 

The  marquis  was  persuaded,  but  ob- 
jected to  the  cutter.  They  would  walk 
there,  he  said.     So  it  was  arranged  that 


Malcolm  should  take  him  and  Lady 
Florimel  to  the  Baillies'  Barn  the  very 
next  time  the  fishermen  had  a  meeting. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 
THE    BAILLIES'    BARN. 

Lady  Florimel  was  delighted  at  the 
prospect  of  such  an  adventure.  The 
evening  arrived.  An  hour  before  the 
time  appointed  for  the  meeting  the  three 
issued  from  the  tunnel  and  passed  along 
the  landward  side  of  the  dune  toward 
the  promontory.  There  sat  the  piper  on 
the  swivel,  ready  to  sound  a  pibroch  the 
moment  they  should  have  reached  the 
shelter  of  the  bored  craig,  his  signal  be- 
ing Malcolm's  whistle.  The  plan  an- 
swered perfectly.  In  a  few  minutes  all 
the  children  within  hearing  were  gather- 
ed about  Duncan — a  rarer  right  to  them 
than  heretofore — and  the  way  was  clear 
to  enter  unseen. 

It  was  already  dusk,  and  the  cave  was 
quite  dark,  but  Malcolm  lighted  a  can- 
dle, and  with  a  little  difficulty  got  them 
up  into  the  wider  part  of  the  cleft,  where 
he  had  arranged  comfortable  seats  with 
plaids  and  cushions.  As  soon  as  they 
were  placed  he  extinguished  the  light. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  us  another  sto- 
ry, Malcolm,"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

"  Do,"  said  the  marquis  :  "the  place  is 
not  consecrated  yet." 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  the  tale  o'  the  auld 
warlock,  my  leddy  ?"  asked  Malcolm. 
"Only  my  lord  kens  't,"  he  added. 

"/don't,"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

"It's  great  nonsense,"  said  the  mar- 
quis. 

"  Do  let  us  have  it,  papa." 

"Very  well.  I  don't  mind  hearing  it 
again." 

He  wanted  to  see  how  Malcolm  would 
embellish  it. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Malcolm,  "that 
this  ane  aboot  Lossie  Hoose,  an'  yon 
ane  aboot  Colonsay  Castel,  are  verra 
likly  but  twa  stalks  frae  the  same  rute. 
Ony  gait,  this  ane  aboot  the  warlock 
maun  be  the  auldcst  o'  the  twa.  Ye  s' 
hae  't  sic  's  I  hae  't  mysel'.  Mistress 
Coorthoup  taul'  't  to  me." 


MALCOLM. 


187 


It  was  after  his  own  more  picturesque 
fashion,  however,  that  he  recounted  the 
tale  of  Lord  Gernon. 

As  the  last  words  left  his  lips  Lady 
Florimel  gave  a  startled  cry,  seized  him 
by  the  arm  and  crept  close  to  him.  The 
marquis  jumped  to  his  feet,  knocked  his 
head  against  the  rock,  uttered  an  oath 
and  sat  down  again. 

"What  ails  ye,  my  leddy  ?"  said  Mal- 
colm,    "There's  naething  here  to  hurt 

ye-" 

"I  saw  a  face,"  she  said — "a  white 
face !" 

"Whaur?" 

"Beyond  you  a  little  way — near  the 
ground,"  she  answered  in  a  tremulous 
whisper. 

"It's  as  dark  's  pick,"  said  Malcolm, 
as  if  thinking  it  to  himself.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  it  must  be  the  laird  or 
Phemy,  but  he  was  anxious  the  marquis 
should  not  learn  the  secret  of  the  laird's 
refuge. 

"  I  saw  a  face  anyhow,"  said  Florimel. 
"  It  gleamed  white  for  one  moment,  and 
then  vanished." 

"  I  wonner  ye  dinna  cry  oot  waur,  my 
leddy,"  said  Malcolm,  peering  into  the 
darkness. 

"  I  was  too  frightened.  It  looked  so 
ghastly — not  more  than  a  foot  from  the 
ground." 

"Cud  it  hae  been  a  flash,  like,  frae  yer 
ain  een  .''" 

"No  :  I  am  sure  it  was  a  face." 

"How  much  is  there  of  this  cursed 
hole?"  asked  the  marquis,  rubbing  the 
top  of  his  head. 

"Aheap,"  answered  Malcolm.  "The 
grun'  gangs  doon  like  a  brae  ahin'  's  in- 
till  a—" 

"You  don't  mean  right  behind  us?" 
cried  the  marquis. 

"Nae  jist  closs,  my  lord.  We're  sit- 
tin'  i'  the  mou'  o'  't  like,  wi'  the  thrap- 
ple  {throat)  o'  't  ahin'  's,  an'  a  muckle 
stamach  ayont  that." 

"  I  hope  there's  no  danger,"  said  the 
marquis. 

"Nane  'at  I  ken  o'." 

"  No  water  at  the  bottom  ?" 

"  Nane,  my  lord — that  is,  naething  but 
a  bonny  spring  i'  the  rock-side." 


"Come  away,  papa?"  cried  Florimel. 
"  I  don't  like  it.  I've  had  enough  of  this 
kind  of  thing." 

"  Nonsense !'  said  the  marquis,  still 
rubbing  his  head. 

"  Ye  wad  spile  a',  my  leddy !  It's  ower 
late,  forbye,"  said  Malcolm:  "I  hear  a 
fut." 

He  rose  and  peeped  out,  but  drew  back 
instantly,  saying  in  a  whisper,  "  It's  Mis- 
tress Catanach  wi'  a  lantren.  Haud  yer 
tongue,  my  bonny  leddy :  ye  ken  weel 
she's  no  mowse.  Dinna  try  to  leuk,  my 
lord  :  she  micht  get  a  glimp  o'  ye — she's 
terrible  gleg.  I  hae  been  hearin'  mair 
yet  aboot  her.  Yer  lordship  's  ill  to  con- 
vence,  but  depen'  upo'  't  whaurever  that 
wuman  is,  there  there's  mischeef.  Whaur 
she  takes  a  scunner  at  a  body  she  hates 
like  the  verra  deevil.  She  winna  aye  lat 
them  ken  't,  but  taks  time  to  du  her  ill 
turns.  An'  it's  no  that  only,  but  gien 
she  gets  a  haud  o'  onything  agane  ony- 
body,  she  '11  save  't  up  upo'  the  chance 
o'  their  giein'  her  some  offence  afore  they 
dee.  She  never  lowses  haud  o'  the  tail 
o'  a  thing,  an'  at  her  ain  proaper  time 
she's  in  her  natur'  bun'  to  mak  the  warst 
use  o'  't." 

Malcolm  was  anxious  both  to  keep 
them  still  and  to  turn  aside  any  further 
inquiry  as  to  the  face  Florimel  had  seen. 
Again  he  peeped  out.  "What  is  she 
efter  noo  ?  She's  comin'  this  gait,"  he 
went  on  in  a  succession  of  whispers, 
turning  his  head  back  over  his  shoulder 
when  he  spoke.  "Gien  she  thoucht 
there  was  a  hole  i'  the  perris  she  didna 
ken  a'  the  oots  an'  ins  o',  it  wad  haud 
her  ohn  sleepit.  Weesht !  weesht !  here 
she  comes,"  he  concluded  after  a  listen- 
ing pause,  in  the  silence  of  which  he 
could  hear  her  step  approaching. 

He  stretched  out  his  neck  over  the 
ledge,  and  saw  her  coming  straight  for 
the  back  of  the  cave,  looking  right  be- 
fore her  with  slow-moving,  keen,  wicked 
eyes.  It  was  impossible  to  say  what 
made  them  look  wicked :  neither  in 
form,  color,  motion  nor  light  were  they 
ugly,  yet  in  every  one  of  these  they  look- 
ed wicked,  as  her  lantern,  which  being 
of  horn  she  had  opened  for  more  light, 
now  and  then,  as  it  swung  in  her  hand, 


MALCOLM. 


shone  up  on  her  pale,  pulpy,  evil  coun- 
tenance. 

"Gien  she  tries  to  come  up,  I'll  hae  to 
caw  her  doon,"  he  said  to  himself;  "an' 
I  dinna  like  it,  for  she's  a  wuman  cfter 
a',  though  a  deevilich  kin'  o'  a  ane;  but 
there's  my  leddy  :  I  hae  broucht  her  in- 
till  't,  an'  I  maun  see  her  safe  oot  o'  't." 
But  if  Mrs.  Catanach  was  bent  on  an 
exploration,  she  was  for  the  time  prevent- 
ed from  prosecuting  it  by  the  approach 
of  the  first  of  the  worshipers,  whose 
voices  they  now  plainly  heard.  She  re- 
treated toward  the  middle  of  the  cave 
and  sat  down  in  a  dark  corner,  closing 
her  lantern  and  hiding  it  with  the  skirt 
of  her  long  cloak.  Presently  a  good 
many  entered  at  once,  some  carrying 
lanterns,  but  most  of  them  tallow  can- 
dles, which  they  quickly  lighted  and  dis- 
posed about  the  walls.  The  rest  of  the 
congregation,  with  its  leaders,  came  troop- 
ing in  so  fast  that  in  ten  minutes  or  so 
the  service  began. 

As  soon  as  the  singing  commenced, 
Malcolm  whispered  to  Lady  Florimel, 
"Was  't  a  man's  face  or  a  lassie's  ye 
saw,  my  leddy  ?" 

"A  man's  face — the  same  we  saw  in 
the  storm,"  she  answered,  and  Malcolm 
felt  her  shudder  as  she  spoke. 

"  It's  naething  but  the  mad  laird,"  he 
said.  "  He's  better  nor  hairmless.  Din- 
na say  a  word  to  yer  father,  my  leddy. 
I  dinna  like  to  say  that,  but  I'll  tell  ye  a' 
what  for  efterhin'." 

But  Florimel,  knowing  that  her  father 
had  a  horror  of  lunatics,  was  willing 
enough  to  be  silent. 

No  sooner  was  her  terror  thus  as- 
suaged than  the  oddities  of  the  singing 
laid  hold  upon  her,  stirring  up  a  most 
tyrannous  impulse  to  laughter.  The 
prayer  that  followed  made  it  worse.  In 
itself  the  prayer  was  perfectly  reverent, 
and  yet,  for  dread  of  irreverence,  I  must 
not  attempt  a  representation  of  the  forms 
of  its  embodiment  or  the  manner  of  its 
utterance. 

So  uncontrollable  did  her  inclination 
to  merriment  become  that  she  found  at 
last  the  only  way  to  keep  from  bursting 
into  loud  laughter  was  to  slacken  the 
curb  and  go,off  at  a  canter :  I  mean,  to 


laugh  freely  but  gently.  This  so  infect- 
ed her  father  that  he  straightway  accom- 
panied her,  but  with  more  noise.  Mal- 
colm sat  in  misery — from  the  fear  not  so 
much  of  discovery,  though  that  would 
be  awkward  enough,  as  of  the  loss  to 
the  laird  of  his  best  refuge.  But  when 
he  reflected,  he  doubted  much  whether 
it  was  even  now  a  safe  one,  and  anyhow 
knew  it  would  be  as  vain  to  remonstrate 
as  to  try  to  stop  the  noise  of  a  brook  by 
casting  pebbles  into  it. 

When  it  came  to  the  sermon,  however, 
things  went  better,  for  MacLeod  was  the 
preacher — an  eloquent  man,  after  his 
kind,  in  virtue  of  the  genuine  earnest- 
ness of  which  he  was  full.  If  his  anx- 
iety for  others  appeared  to  be  rather  to 
save  them  from  the  consequences  of  their 
sins,  his  main  desire  for  himself  certain- 
ly was  to  be  delivered  from  evil :  the 
growth  of  his  spiritual  nature,  while  it 
rendered  him  more  and  more  dissatisfied 
with  himself,  had  long  left  behind  all 
fear  save  of  doing  wrong.  His  sermon 
this  evening  was  founded  on  the  text, 
"The  natural  man  receiveth  not  the 
things  of  the  Spirit  of  God."  He  spoke 
fervently  and  persuasively ;  nor,  although 
his  tone  and  accent  were  odd,  and  his 
Celtic  modes  and  phrases  to  those  Saxon 
ears  outlandish,  did  these  peculiarities  in 
the  least  injure  the  influence  of  the  man. 
Even  from  Florimel  was  the  demon  of 
laughter  driven  ;  and  the  marquis,  al- 
though not  a  single  notion  of  what  the 
man  intended  passed  through  the  doors 
of  his  understanding,  sat  quiet  and  dis- 
approved of  nothing.  Possibly,  had  he 
been  alone  as  he  listened,  he  too,  like 
one  of  old,  might  have  heard  in  the  dark 
cave  the  still  small  voice  of  a  presence 
urging  him  forth  to  the  light ;  but  as  it 
was,  the  whole  utterance  passed  withcK.it 
a  single  word  or  phrase  or  sentence  hav- 
ing roused  a  thought  or  suggested  a  doubt 
or  moved  a  question  or  hinted  an  objec- 
tion or  a  need  of  explanation.  That  the 
people  present  should  interest  themselves 
in  such  things  only  set  before  him  the 
folly  of  mankind.  The  text  and  the 
preacher  both  kept  telling  him  that  such 
as  he  could  by  no  possibility  have  the 
slightest  notion  what  such  things  were ; 


MALCOLM. 


189 


but  not  the  less  did  he,  as  if  he  knew  all 
about  them,  wonder  how  the  deluded 
fisher-tblk  could  sit  and  listen.  The 
more  tired  he  grew,  the  more  angry  he 
got  with  the  parson  who  had  sent  him 
there  with  his  foolery,  and  the  more  con- 
vinced that  the  men  who  prayed  and 
preached  were  as  honest  as  they  were 
silly,  and  that  the  thing  to  die  of  itself 
had  only  to  be  let  alone.  He  heard  the 
Amen  of  the  benediction  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  and  rose  at  once — cautiously  this 
time. 

"Ye  maunna  gang  yet,  my  lord,"  said 
Malcolm.     "They  maun  be  a'  oot  first." 

"I  don't  care  who  sees  me,"  protested 
the  weary  man. 

"But  yer  lordship  wadna  like  to  be 
descriet  scram'lin'  doon  efter  the  back 
like  the  bear  in  Robinso?i  Crusoe?" 

The  marquis  grumbled,  and  yielded 
impatiently. 

At  length  Malcolm,  concluding  from 
the  silence  that  the  meeting  had  thor- 
oughly skailed,  peeped  cautiously  out  to 
make  sure.  But  after  a  moment  he  drew 
back,  saying  in  a  regretful  whisper,  "  I'm 
sorry  ye  canna  gang  yet,  my  lord.  There's 
some  half  a  dizzen  o'  ill-luikin'  chields 
— cairds  [gypsies),  I'm  thinkin',  or  may- 
be waur — congregat  doon  there,  an'  it's 
my  opingon  they're  efter  nae  guid,  my 
lord." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"Onybody  wad  ken  that  'at  got  a 
glimp  o'  them." 

"Let  me  look." 

"Na,  my  lord:  ye  dinna  understan' 
the  lie  o'  the  stanes  eneuch  to  baud  oot 
0'  sicht." 

"  How  long  do  you  mean  to  keep  us 
here  ?"  asked  the  marquis  impatiently. 

"  Till  it's  safe  to  gang,  my  lord.  For 
onything  I  ken,  they  may  be  efter  comin' 
up  here.  They  may  be  used  to  the  place, 
though  I  dinna  think  it." 

"In  that  case  we  must  go  down  at 
once.  We  must  ttot  let  them  find  us 
here." 

"They  wad  tak  's  ane  by  ane  as  we 
gaed  doon,  my  lord,  an'  we  wadna  hae 
a  chance.     Think  o'  my  leddy  there." 

Florimel  heard  all,  but  with  the  courage 
of  her  race. 


"This  is  a  fine  position  you  have 
brought  us  into,  MacPhail !"  said  his 
master,  now  thoroughly  uneasy  for  his 
daughter's  sake. 

"Nae  waur  nor  I'll  tak  ye  oot  o',  gien 
ye  lippen  to  me,  my  lord,  an'  no  speyk 
a  word." 

"  If  you  tell  them  who  papa  is,"  said 
Florimel,  "they  won't  do  us  any  harm, 
surely." 

"I'm  nane  sae  sure  o'  that.  They 
micht  want  to  r}'pe  's  pooches  {seafch 
his  pockets),  an'  my  lord  wad  ill  stan' 
that,  I'm  thinkin'.  Na,  na.  Jist  stan* 
ye  back,  my  lord  an'  my  leddy,  an' 
dinna  speyk  a  word.  I  s'  sattle  them. 
They're  sic  villains  there's  nae  terms  to 
be  hauden  wi'  them." 

His  lordship  was  far  from  satisfied,  but 
a  light  shining  up  into  the  crevice  at  the 
moment  gave  powerful  support  to  Mal- 
colm's authority :  he  took  Florimel's 
hand  and  drew  her  a  little  farther  from 
the  mouth  of  the  cave. 

"Don't  you  wish  we  had  Demon  with 
us  ?"  whispered  the  girl. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  I  never  went 
without  a  dagger  in  Venice,"  said  the 
marquis,  "and  never  once  had  occasion 
to  use  it.  Now  I  haven't  even  a  pen- 
knife about  me.  It  looks  very  awk- 
ward." 

"Please  don't  talk  like  that,"  said 
Florimel.  "Can't  you  trust  Malcolm, 
papa  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  perfectly,"  he  answered,  but 
the  tone  was  hardly  up  to  the  words. 

They  could  see  the  dim  figure  of  Mal- 
colm, outlined  in  fits  of  the  approach- 
ing light,  all  but  filling  the  narrow  en- 
trance as  he  bent  forward  to  listen. 
Presently  he  laid  himself  down,  leaning 
on  his  left  elbow,  with  his  right  shoulder 
only  a  little  above  the  level  of  the  pas- 
sage. The  light  came  nearer,  and  they 
heard  the  sound  of  scrambling  on  the 
rock,  but  no  voice :  then  for  one  mo- 
ment the  light  shone  clear  upon  the  roof 
of  the  cleft ;  the  next  came  the  sound 
of  a  dull  blow,  the  light  vanished,  and 
the  noise  of  a  heavy  fall  came  from  be- 
neath. 

"Ane  o'  them,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm 
in  a  sharp  whisper  over  his  shoulder. 


igo 


MALCOLM. 


A  confusion  of  voices  arose.  "You 
booby!"  said  one.  "You  climb  like  a 
calf.     I'll  go  next." 

Evidently  they  thought  he  had  slipped 
and  fallen,  and  he  was  unable  to  set 
them  right.  Malcom  heard  them  drag 
him  out  of  the  way. 

The  second  ascended  more  rapidly, 
and  met  his  fate  the  sooner.  As  he  de- 
livered the  blow,  Malcolm  recognized 
one  of  the  laird's  assailants,  and  was 
now  perfectly  at  his  ease.  "Twa  o' 
them,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "Gien  we  had 
ane  mair  doon,  we  cud  manage  the 
lave." 

The  second,  however,  had  not  lost  his 
speech,  and  amidst  the  confused  talk 
that  followed  Malcolm  heard  the  words, 
"  Rin  doon  to  the  coble  for  the  gun,"  and 
immediately  after  the  sound  of  feet  hur- 
rying from  the  cave. 

He  rose  quietly,  leaped  into  the  midst 
of  them,  came  down  upon  one  and 
struck  out  right  and  left.  Two  ran  and 
three  lay  where  they  were.  "  Gien  ane 
o'  ye  muv  han'  or  fit,  I'll  brain  him  wi' 
's  ain  stick,"  he  cried  as  he  wrenched  a 
cudgel  from  the  grasp  of  one  of  them. 
Then  catching  up  a  lantern  and  hurry- 
ing behind  the  projecting  rock,  "  Haste 
ye,  an'  come,"  he  shouted.  "The  w'y 
's  clear,  but  only  for  a  meenute." 

Florimel  appeared,  and  Malcolm  got 
her  down. 

"Mind  that  fellow,"  cried  the  marquis 
from  above. 

Malcolm  turned  quickly,  and  saw  the 
gleam  of  a  knife  in  the  grasp  of  his  old 
enemy,  who  had  risen  and  crept  behind 
him  to  the  recess.  He  flung  the  lantern 
in  his  face,  following  it  with  a  blow  in 
which  were  concentrated  all  the  weight 
and  energy  of  his  frame.  The  man 
went  down  again  heavily,  and  Malcolm 
instantly  trampled  all  their  lanterns  to 
pieces. 

"Noo,"  he  said  to  himself,  "they  win- 
na  ken  but  it's  the  laird  an'  Phemy  wi' 
me." 

Then  turning,  and  taking  Florimel  by 
the  arm,  he  hurried  her  out  of  llie  cave, 
followed  by  the  marquis. 

They  emerged  in  the  liquid  darkness 
of  a  starry  night.     Lady  Florimel  clung 


to  both  her  father  and  Malcolm.  It  was 
a  rough  way  for  some  little  distance,  but 
at  length  they  reached  the  hard  wet 
sand,  and  the  marquis  would  have  stop- 
ped to  take  breath,  but  Malcolm  was  un- 
easy and  hurried  them  on. 

"What  are  you  frightened  at  now?" 
asked  his  lordship. 

"Naething,"  answered  Malcolm,  add- 
ing to  himself,  however,  "I'm  fleyt  ai 
naething — I'm  fleyt  /frthe  laird." 

As  they  approached  the  tunnel  he  fell 
behind. 

"Why  don't  you  come  on?"  said  his 
lordship. 

"I'm  gaen'  back  noo  'at  ye're  safe," 
said  Malcolm. 

"  Going  back  !  What  for  ?"  asked  the 
marquis. 

"  I  maun  see  what  thae  villains  are  up 
till,"  answered  Malcolm. 

"Not  alone,  surely!"  exclaimed  the 
marquis.  "At  least  get  some  of  youi 
people  to  go  with  you." 

"There's  nae  time,  my  lord.  Dinna 
be  fleyt  for  me :  I  s'  tak  care  o'  mysel'." 

He  was  already  yards  away,  running 
at  full  speed.  The  marquis  shouted 
after  him,  but  Malcolm  would  not  hear. 

When  he  reached  the  Baillies'  Barn 
once  more  all  was  still.  He  groped  his 
way  in,  and  found  his  own  lantern  where 
they  had  been  sitting,  and,  having  light- 
ed it,  descended  and  followed  the  wind- 
ings of  the  cavern  a  long  way,  but  saw 
nothing  of  the  laird  or  Phemy.  Coming 
at  length  to  a  spot  where  he  heard  the 
rushing  of  a  stream,  he  found  he  could 
go  no  farther :  the  roof  of  the  cave  had 
fallen,  and  blocked  up  the  way  with 
huge  masses  of  stone  and  earth.  He 
had  come  a  good  distance,  certainly,  but 
by  no  means  so  far  as  Phemy's  imagina- 
tion had  represented  the  reach  of  the 
cavern.  He  might,  however,  have  miss- 
ed a  turn,  he  thought. 

The  sound  he  heard  was  that  of  the 
Lossie  Burn  flowing  along  in  the  star- 
light through  the  grounds  of  the  House. 
Of  tliis  he  satisfied  himself  afterward; 
and  then  it  seemed  to  him  not  unlikely 
that  in  ancient  times  the  river  had  found 
its  way  to  the  sea  along  the  cave,  for 
throughout  its  length  the  action  of  water 


MALCOLM. 


191 


was  plainly  visible.  But  perhaps  the 
sea  itself  had  used  to  go  roaring  along 
the  great  duct :  Malcolm  was  no  geolo- 
gist, and  could  not  tell. 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 
MRS.   STEWART'S   CLAIM. 

The  weather  became  unsettled  with 
the  approach  of  winter,  and  the  marquis 
had  a  boat-house  built  at  the  west  end 
of  the  Seaton  :  there  the  little  cutter  was 
laid  up,  well  wrapped  in  tarpaulins,  like 
a  butterfly  returned  to  the  golden  coffin 
of  her  internatal  chrysalis.  A  great  part 
of  his  resulting  leisure  Malcolm  spent 
with  Mr.  Graham,  to  whom  he  had,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  unfolded  the  trouble 
caused  him  by  Duncan's  communication. 

The  more  thoughtful  a  man  is,  and 
the  more  conscious  of  what  is  going  on 
within  himself,  the  more  interest  will  he 
take  in  what  he  can  know  of  his  pro- 
genitors to  the  remotest  generations,  and 
a  regard  to  ancestral  honors,  however 
contemptible  the  forms  which  the  appro- 
priation of  them  often  assumes,  is  a  plant 
rooted  in  the  deepest  soil  of  humanity. 
The  high-souled  laborer  will  yield  to 
none  in  his  respect  for  the  dignity  of  his 
origin,  and  Malcolm  had  been  as  proud 
of  the  humble  descent  he  supposed  his 
own  as  Lord  Lossie  was  of  his  mighty 
a^cestr}^  Malcolm  had  indeed  a  loftier 
sense  of  resulting  dignity  than  his  master. 

He  reverenced  Duncan  both  for  his 
uprightness  and  for  a  certain  grandeur 
of  spirit,  which,  however  ridiculous  to 
the  common  eye,  would  have  been  glo- 
rious in  the  eyes  of  the  chivalry  of  old : 
he  looked  up  to  him  with  admiration  be- 
cause of  his  gifts  in  poetry  and  music, 
and  loved  him  endlessly  for  his  unfail- 
ing goodness  and  tenderness  to  himself. 
Even  the  hatred  of  the  grand  old  man 
had  an  element  of  unselfishness  in  its 
retroaction,  of  power  in  its  persistency, 
and  of  greatness  in  its  absolute  contempt 
of  compromise.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  the  only  human  being  to  whom  Mal- 
colm's heart  had  gone  forth  as  to  his 
own  ;  and  now,  with  the  knowledge  of 
yet  deeper  cause  for  loving  him,  he  had 


to  part  with  the  sense  of  a  filial  relation 
to  him.  And  this  involved  more  ;  for  so 
thoroughly  had  the  old  man  come  to  re- 
gard the  boy  as  his  offspring  that  he  had 
nourished  in  him  his  own  pride  of  family; 
and  it  added  a  sting  of  mortification  to 
Malcolm's  sorrow  that  the  greatness  of 
the  legendary'  descent  in  which  he  had 
believed,  and  the  honorableness  of  the 
mournful  history  with  which  his  thoughts 
of  himself  had  been  so  closely  asso- 
ciated, were  swept  from  him  utterly. 
Nor  was  this  all  even  yet :  in  losing  these 
he  had  had,  as  it  were,  to  let  go  his  hold, 
not  of  his  clan  merely,  but  of  his  race : 
every  link  of  kin  that  bound  him  to  hu- 
manity had  melted  away  from  his  grasp. 
Suddenly  he  would  become  aware  that 
his  heart  was  sinking  within  him,  and 
questioning  it  why,  would  learn  anew 
that  he  was  alone  in  the  world — a  being 
without  parents,  without  sister  or  brother, 
with  none  to  whom  he  might  look  in  the 
lovely  confidence  of  a  right  bequeathed 
by  some  common  mother,  near  or  afar. 
He  had  waked  into  being,  but  all  around 
him  was  dark,  for  there  was  no  window 
— that  is,  no  kindred  eye — by  which  the 
light  of  the  world  whence  he  had  come, 
entering,  might  console  him. 

But  a  gulf  of  blackness  was  about  to 
open  at  his  feet,  against  which  the  dark- 
ness he  now  lamented  would  show  pur- 
ple and  gray. 

One  afternoon  as  he  passed  through 
the  Seaton  from  the  harbor  to  have  a 
look  at  the  cutter,  he  heard  the  Partaness 
calling  after  him.  "Weel,  ye're  a  sicht 
for  sair  een,  noo  'at  ye're  like  to  turn 
oot  something  worth  luikin'  at,"  she 
cried  as  he  approached  with  his  usual 
friendly  smile. 

"What  div  ye  mean  by  that.  Mistress 
Findlay?"  asked  Malcolm,  carelessly 
adding,  "Is  yer  man  in  ?" 

"Ay,"  she  went  on,  without  heeding 
either  question,  "ye'll  be  gran'  set  up 
noo  !  Ye'll  no  be  haen'  '  a  fine  day '  to 
fling  at  yer  auld  freen's,  the  puir  fisher- 
fowk,  er  lang.  Weel,  it's  the  w'y  o'  the 
warl !     Hech,  sirs  !" 

"What  on  earth  's  set  ye  aff  like  that, 
Mistress  Findlay  ?"  said  Malcolm.  "  It's 
nae  sic  a  feerious  [furious)  gran'  thing 


ig: 


MALCOLM. 


to  be  my  lord's  skipper — or  henchmnn, 
as  my  daddy  wad  hae  't— surely  !  It's  a 
heap  gran'er  like  to  be  a  free  fisherman, 
wi'  a  boat  o'  yer  ain,  like  the  Partan." 

"  Hoots  !  Nane  o'  yer  clavers  !  Ye 
ken  weel  eneuch  what  I  mean — as  weel 
's  ilka  ither  creatit  sowl  i'  Portlossie.  An' 
gien  ye  dinna  chowse  to  lat  on  aboot  it 
till  an  auld  freen'  'cause  she's  naething 
but  a  fisherwife,  it's  dune  ye  mair  skaith 
a'ready  nor  I  thoucht  it  wad  to  the  lang 
last,  Ma'colm — for  it's  yer  ain  name  I  s' 
ca'  ye  yet,  gien  ye  war  ten  times  a  laird. 
Didna  I  gie  ye  the  breist  whan  ye  cud 
du  naething  i'  the  wardle  but  sowk  ?  An' 
weel  ye  sowkit,  puir  innocent  'at  ye  was  /" 

"As  sure's  we're  baith  alive,"  assever- 
ated Malcolm,  "  I  ken  nae  mair  nor  a 
sawtit  herrin'  what  ye're  drivin'  at." 

"Tell  me  'at  ye  dinna  ken  what  a'  the 
queentry  kens,  an'  hit  aboot  yer  ain- 
sel' !"  screamed  the  Partaness. 

"I  tell  ye  I  ken  naething;  an'  gien  ye 
dinna  tell  me  what  ye're  efter  direckly, 
I  s'  baud  awa'  to  Mistress  Allison  :  she  '11 
tell  me." 

This  was  a  threat  sufficiently  prevail- 
ing. 

"  It's  no  in  natur' !"  she  cried.  "  Here's 
Mistress  Stewart  o'  the  Gersefell  been 
cawin'  {^driving)  like  mad  aboot  the 
place,  in  her  cairriage  an'  hoo  mony 
horse  I  dinna  ken,  declarin' — ay,  sweir- 
in',  they  tell  me — 'at  ane  cowmonly  ca'd 
Ma'colm  MacPhail  is  neither  mair  nor 
less  nor  the  son  born  o'  her  ain  boady 
in  honest  wadlock.  An'  tell  me  ye  ken 
naething  aboot  it !  What  are  ye  stan'in' 
like  that  for,  as  gray-mou'd  's  a  deein' 
skate  ?" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Malcolm, 
young  and  strong  as  he  was,  felt  sick. 
Sea  and  sky  grew  dim  before  him,  and 
the  earth  seemed  to  reel  under  him. 

"I  dinna  believe  't,"  he  faltered,  and 
turned  away. 

"  Ye  dinna  believe  what  I  tell  ye  ?" 
screeched  the  wrathful  Partaness.  "Ye 
daur  say  the  word  !" 

But  Malcolm  did  not  care  to  reply. 
He  wandered  away,  half  unconscious  of 
where  he  was,  his  head  hanging  and  his 
eyes  creeping  over  the  ground.  The 
words  of  the  woman  kept  ringing  in  his 


ears,  but  ever  and  anon  behind  them,  as 
it  were  in  the  depths  of  his  soul,  he 
heard  the  voice  of  the  mad  lord  with  its 
one  lamentation,  "  I  dinna  ken  whaur  I 
cam'  frae."  Finding  himself  at  length  at 
Mr.  Graham's  door,  he  wondered  how 
he  had  got  there. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  the 
master  was  in  the  churchyard.  Startled 
by  Malcolm's  look,  he  gazed  at  him  in 
grave  silent  inquiry. 

"Hae  ye  h'ard  the  ill  news,  sir?"  said 
the  youth. 

"No  :  I'm  sorry  to  hear  there  is  any." 

"They  tell  me  Mistress  Stewart's  rin- 
nin'  aboot  the  toon  claimin'  me  !" 

"Claiming  you !     How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"For  her  ain." 

"Not  for  her  son  ?" 

"  Ay,  sir :  that  's  what  they  say.  But 
ye  haena  h'ard  o'  't  ?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"Then  I  believe  it's  a'  havers,"  cried 
Malcolm  energetically.  "  It  was  sair 
eneuch  upo'  me  a'ready  to  ken  less  o' 
whaur  I  cam  frae  than  the  puir  laird 
himsel',  but  to  come  frae  whaur  he  cam 
frae  was  a  thoucht  ower  sair." 

"You  don't  surely  despise  the  poor 
fellow  so  much  as  to  scorn  to  have  the 
same  parents  with  him  ?"  said  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. 

"The  verra  contra',  sir.  But  a  wuman 
wha  wad  sae  misguide  the  son  o'  her  ain 
body,  an'  for  naething  but  that  as  she 
had  broucht  him  furth  sic  he  was,  —  it  's 
no  to  be  lichtly  believed  nor  lichtly 
endured.  I  s'  awa'  to  Miss  Horn  an' 
see  whether  she  's  h'ard  ony  sic  leein* 
clashes." 

But  as  Malcolm  uttered  her  name  his 
heart  sank  within  him,  for  their  talk  the 
night  he  had  sought  her  hospitality  for 
the  laird  came  back  to  his  memory, 
burning  like  an  acrid  poison. 

"You  can't  do  better,"  said  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. "  The  report  itself  may  be  false — 
or  true  and  the  lady  mistaken." 

"  She'll  hae  to  pruv  't  weel  afore  I  say 
hatid,'"  rejoined  Malcolm. 

"And  suppose  she  does  ?" 

"In  that  case,"  said  Malcolm  with  a 
composure  almost  ghastly,  "a  man  maun 
tak  what  mither  it  pleases  God  to  gie 


MALCOLM. 


193 


him.  But  faith !  she  winna  du  wi'  me 
as  wi'  the  puir  laird.  Gien  she  taks  me 
up,  she'll  repent  'at  she  didna  lat  me  lie. 
She'll  be  as  little  pleased  wi'  the  tane  o' 
her  sons  as  the  tither,  I  can  tell  her,  ohn 
propheseed !" 

"  But  think  what  you  might  do  between 
mother  and  son,"  suggested  the  master, 
willing  to  reconcile  him  to  the  possible 
worst. 

"  It's  ower  late  for  that,"  he  answered. 
"The  puir  man's  thairms  (fiddle-strings) 
are  a'  hingin'  lowse,  an  there's  no  grip 
eneuch  i'  the  pegs  to  set  them  again. 
He  wad  but  think  I  had  gane  ower  to 
the  enemy,  an'  haud  oot  o'  my  gait  as 
eident  {diligently)  as  he  bauds  oot  o' 
hers.  Na,  it  wad  du  naething  for  him. 
Gien  't  warna  for  what  I  see  in  him,  I 
wad  hae  a  gran'  rebutter  to  her  claim  ; 
for  hoo  cud  ony  woman's  ain  son  hae 
sic  a  scunner  at  her  as  I  hae  i'  my  hert 
an'  brain  an'  verra  stamach  ?  Gien  she 
war  my  ain  mither  there  bude  to  be 
some  nait'ral  drawin's  atween  's,  a  body 
wad  think.  But  it  winna  haud,  for 
there's  the  laird.  The  verra  name  o' 
mither  gars  him  steik  his  lugs  an'  rin." 

"  Still,  if  she  should  be  your  mother, 
it's  for  better  for  worse,  as  much  as  if 
she  had  been  your  own  choice." 

"  I  kenna  weel  hoo  it  cud  be  for  waur," 
said  Malcolm,  who  did  not  yet,  even 
from  his  recollection  of  the  things  Miss 
Horn  had  said,  comprehend  what  worst 
threatened  him. 

"  It  does  seem  strange,"  said  the  mas- 
ter thoughtfully  after  a  pause,  "that  some 
women  should  be  allowed  to  be  mothers 
— that  through  them  sons  and  daughters 
of  God  should  come  into  the  world — 
thief-babies,  say — human  parasites,  with 
no  choice  but  to  feed  on  the  social  body." 

"  I  wonner  what  God  thinks  aboot  it 
a'  ?  It  gars  a  body  speir  whether  He 
cares  or  no,"  said  Malcolm  gloomily. 

"It  does,"  responded  Mr.  Graham 
solemnly. 

"  Y)'\v  ye  alloo  that,  sir  ?"  returned  Mal- 
colm aghast.  "That  soon's  as  gien 
a'thing  war  rushin'  thegither  back  to  the 
auld  chaos." 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised,"  continued 
the  master,  apparently  heedless  of  Mal- 
»3 


colm's  consternation,  "if  the  day  should 
come  when  well-meaning  men,  excellent 
in  the  commonplace,  but  of  dwarfed  im- 
agination, refused  to  believe  in  a  God  on 
the  ground  of  apparent  injustice  in  the 
very  frame  and  constitution  of  things. 
Such  would  argue  that  there  might  be 
either  an  omnipotent  being  who  did  not 
care,  or  a  good  being  who  could  not  help, 
but  that  there  could  not  be  a  being  both 
all-good  and  omnipotent,  for  such  would 
never  have  suffered  things  to  be  as  they 
are." 

"What  wad  the  clergy  say  to  hear  ye, 
sir  ?"  said  Malcolm,  himself  almost  trem- 
bling at  the  words  of  his  master. 

"  Nothing  to  the  purpose,  I  fear.  They 
would  never  face  the  question.  I  know 
what  they  would  do  if  they  could — burn 
me,  as  their  spiritual  ancestor  Calvin 
would  have  done ;  whose  shoe-latchet 
they  are  yet  not  worthy  to  unloose.  But 
mind,  my  boy,  you've  not  heard  me 
speak  ;;;/  thought  on  the  matter  at  all." 

"  But  wadna  't  be  better  to  believe  irt 
twa  Gods  nor  nane  ava'  ?"  propounded 
Malcolm — "ane  a'  guid,  duin'  the  best 
for  's  he  cud,  the  ither  a'  ill,  but  as  poo- 
erfu'  as  the  guid  ane — an'  for  ever  an' 
aye  a  fecht  atween  them,  whiles  ane  get- 
tin'  the  warst  o'  't,  an'  whiles  the  ither  ? 
It  wad  quaiet  yer  hert  ony  gait,  an'  the 
battle  o'  Armageddon  wad  gang  on  as 
gran'  's  ever." 

"  Two  Gods  there  could  not  be,"  said 
Mr.  Graham.  "Of  the  two  beings  sup- 
posed, the  evil  one  must  be  called  devil, 
were  he  ten  times  the  more  powerful." 

"Wi'  a'  my  hert,"  responded  Mal- 
colm. 

"But  I  agree  with  you,"  the  master 
went  on,  "that  Manicheism  is  unspeak- 
ably better  than  atheism,  and  uiithink- 
ahly  better  than  believing  in  an  unjust 
God.  But  I  am  not  driven  to  such  a 
theory." 

"  Hae  ye  ane  o'  yer  ain  'at  '11  fit,  sir  ?"" 

"  If  I  knew  of  a  theory  in  which  was 
never  an  uncompleted  arch  or  turret,  in 
whose  circling  wall  was  never  a  ragged 
breach,  that  theor)-  I  should  know  but 
to  avoid  :  such  gaps  are  the  eternal  win- 
dows through  which  the  dawn  shall  look 
in.      A  complete  theory  is  a  vault  of 


194 


MALCOLM. 


stone  around  the  theorist,  whose  very 
being  yet  depends  on  room  to  grow." 

"  Weel,  I  wad  like  to  hear  what  ye  hae 
agane  Manicheism  ?" 

"The  main  objection  of  theologians 
would  be,  I  presume,  that  it  did  not  pre- 
sent a  God  perfect  in  power  as  in  good- 
ness, but  I  think  it  a  far  more  objection- 
able point  »hat  it  presents  evil  as  possess- 
ing power  in  itself.  My  chief  objection, 
however,  would  be  a  far  deeper  one — 
namely,  that  its  good  being  cannot  be 
absolutely  good,  for  if  he  knew  himself 
unable  to  ensure  the  well-being  of  his 
creatures,  if  he  could  not  avoid  exposing 
them  to  such  foreign  attack,  had  he  a 
right  to  create  them  ?  Would  he  have 
chosen  such  a  doubtful  existence  for  one 
whom  he  meant  to  love  absolutely  ? 
Either,  then,  he  did  not  love  like  a  God, 
or  he  would  not  have  created." 

"  He  micht  ken  himsel'  sure  to  win  i' 
the  lang  rin." 

"Grant  the  same  to  the  God  of  the 
Bible,  and  we  come  back  to  where  we 
were  before." 

"Does  that  satisfee  yersel',  Maister 
Graham  ?"  asked  Malcolm,  looking  deep 
into  the  eyes  of  his  teacher. 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  the  master. 

"Does  onything?" 

"Yes;  but  I  will  not  say  more  on  the 
subject  now.  The  time  may  come  when 
I  shall  have  to  speak  that  which  I  have 
learned,  but  it  is  not  yet.  All  I  will  say 
now  is,  that  I  am  at  peace  concerning 
the  question.  Indeed,  so  utterly  do  I 
feel  myself  the  offspring  of  the  One  that 
it  would  be  enough  for  my  peace  now — 
I  don't  say  it  would  have  been  always — 
to  know  my  mind  troubled  on  a  matter : 
what  troubled  me  would  trouble  God : 
my  trouble  at  the  seeming  wrong  must 
have  its  being  in  the  right  existent  in 
him.  In  him,  supposing  I  could  find 
none,  I  should  yet  say  there  must  lie  a 
lucent,  harmonious,  eternal,  not  merely 
consoling,  but  absolutely  satisfying  solu- 
tion." 

"Winna  ye  tell  me  a'  'at  's  in  yer  hert 
aboot  it,  sir  ?" 

"  Not  now,  my  boy.  You  have  got 
one  thing  to  mind  now,  before  alj  other 
things — namely,  that  you  give  this  wo- 


man, whatever  she  be,  fair  play :  if  she 
be  your' mother,  as  such  you  must  take 
her — that  is,  as  such  you  must  treat  her." 

"Ye're  richt  sir,"  returned  Malcolm, 
and  rose. 

"Come  back  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, "with  whatever  news  you  gather." 

"I  will,  sir,"  answered  Malcolm,  and 
went  to  find  Miss  Horn. 

He  was  shown  into  the  little  parlor, 
which,  for  all  the  grander  things  he  had 
been  amongst  of  late,  had  lost  nothing 
of  its  first  charm.  There  sat  Miss  Horn. 
"Sit  doon,  Ma'colm,"  she  said  gruffly. 

"  Hae  ye  h'ard  onything,  mem  ?"  ask- 
ed Malcolm,  standing. 

"Ay,  ower  muckle,"  answered  Miss 
Horn  with  all  but  a  scowl.  "Ye  been 
ower  to  Gersefell,  I  reckon." 

"Forbid  it !"  answered  Malcolm.  "Nev- 
er till  this  hoor — or  at  maist  it's  nae  twa 
— sin'  I  h'ard  the  first  cheep  o'  't,  an' 
that  was  frae  Meg  Partan.  To  no  hu- 
man sowl  hae  I  made  mention  o'  't  yet 
'cep'  Maister  Graham  :  to  him  I  gaed 
direck." 

"Ye  cudna  hae  dune  better,"  said  the 
grim  woman  with  relaxing  visage. 

"An*  here  I  am  the  noo,  straught  frae 
him,  to  beg  o'  you.  Miss  Horn,  to  tell 
me  the  trowth  o'  the  maitter." 

"What  ken  I  aboot  it?"  she  returned 
angrily.     "What  stid  I  ken  .''" 

"  Ye  micht  ken  whether  the  wuman's 
been  sayin'  't  or  no." 

"  Wha  has  ony  doobt  aboot  that  ?" 

"Mistress  Stewart  has  been  sayin' 
she's  my  mither,  than  ?" 

"Ay:  what  for  no?"  returned  Miss 
Horn  with  a  piercing  glower  at  the 
youth. 

"Guid  forfen' !"  exclaimed  Malcolm. 

"Say  ye  that,  laddie?"  cried  Miss 
Horn,  and  starting  up  she  grasped  his 
arm  and  stood  gazing  in  his  face. 

"  What  ither  sud  I  say  ?"  rejoined  Mal- 
colm, surprised. 

"Godbclaudit!"  exclaimed  Miss  Horn. 
"  The  limmer  may  say  'at  she  likes  noo." 

"  Ye  dinna  believe  't  than,  mem  ?" 
cried  Malcolm.  "Tell  me  ye  dinna,  an' 
baud  me  ohn  curst  like  a  cadger." 

"  I  dinna  believe  ac  word  o'  't,  laddie," 
answered   Miss   Horn  eagerly.      "Wha 


MALCOLM. 


195 


cud  believe  sic  a  fine  laad  come  o'  sic  a 
fause  mither  ?" 

"She  micht  be  onybody's  mither,  an' 
fause  tu,"  said  Malcolm  gloomily. 

"That's  true,  laddie;  an'  the  mair 
mither  the  fauser.  There's  a  warl'  o' 
witness  i'  your  face  'at  gien  she  be  yer 
mither,  the  markis,  an  no  puir  honest 
henpeckit  John  Stewart,  was  the  father 
o'  ye.  The  Lord  forgi'e  me  !  what  am  I 
sayin'  ?"  adjected  Miss  Horn  with  a  cry 
of  self-accusation  when  she  saw  the  pal- 
lor that  overspread  the  countenance  of 
the  youth,  and  his  head  drop  upon  his 
bosom  :  the  last  arrow  had  sunk  to  the 
feather.  "It's  a'  havers,  ony  gait,"  she 
quickly  resumed.  "  I  div  not  believe  ye 
hae  ae  drap  o'  her  bluid  i'  the  body  o' 
ye,  man.  But,"  she  hurried  on,  as  if 
eager  to  obliterate  the  scoring  impression 
of  her  late  words,  "that  she's  been  say- 
in'  't  there  can  be  no  mainner  o'  doobt. 
I  saw  her  mysel'  rinnin"  aboot  the  toon, 
frae  ane  till  anither,  wi'  her  lang  hair 
doon  the  lang  back  o'  her,  an'  ileein'  i' 
the  win'  like  a  body  dementit.  The  only 
question  is,  whether  or  no  she  believes  't 
hersel'." 

"What  cud  gar  her  say  't  gien  she 
didna  believe  't  ?" 

"  Fowk  says  she  expecs  that  w'y  to  get 
a  grip  o'  things  oot  o'  the  ban's  o'  the 
puir  laird's  trustees  :  ye  wad  be  a  son  o' 
her  ain,  cawpable  o'  mainagin'  them. 
But  ye  dinna  tell  me  she's  never  been  at 
yersel'  aboot  it  ?" 

"Never  a  blink  o'  the  ee  has  passed 
atween's  sin'  that  day  I  gaed  till  Gerse- 
fell,  as  I  tellt  ye,  wi  a  letter  frae  the 
markis.  I  thoucht  I  was  ower  mony  for 
her  than  :  I  wonner  she  daur  be  at  me 
again." 

"  She's  daurt  her  God  er'  noo,  an'  may 
Aveel  daur  you.  But  what  says  yer  gran'- 
father  till  't  noo?" 

"  He  hasna  hard  a  chuckle's  cheep  o' 
't." 

"  What  are  we  haverin'  at  than  ?  Can- 
na  he  sattle  the  maitter  aff  han'  ?"  Miss 
Horn  eyed  him  keenly  as  she  spoke. 

"  He  kens  no  more  aboot  whaur  I  come 
frae,  mem,  nor  your  Jean,  wha  's  heark- 
enin'  at  the  keyhole  this  verra  meenute." 

The  quick  ear  of  Malcolm  had  caught 


a  slight  sound  of  the  handle,  whose  prox- 
imity to  the  keyhole  was  no  doubt  often 
troublesome  to  Jean. 

Miss  Horn  seemed  to  reach  the  door 
with  one  spang.  Jean  was  ascending 
the  last  step  of  the  stair  with  a  message 
on  her  lips  concerning  butter  and  eggs. 
Miss  Horn  received  it,  and  went  back  to 
Malcolm.  "Na:  Jean  wadna  du  that," 
she  said  quietly. 

But  she  was  wrong,  for,  hearing  Mal- 
colm's words,  Jean  had  retreated  one 
step  down  the  stair,  and  turned. 

"  But  what's  this  ye  tell  me  aboot  yer 
gran'father,  honest  man  ?"  Miss  Horn 
continued. 

"  Duncan  MacPhail  's  no  bluid  o'  mine, 
the  mair  's  the  pity  !"  said  Malcolm  sad- 
ly, and  told  her  all  he  knew. 

Miss  Horn's  visage  went  through  won- 
derful changes  as  he  spoke.  "Weel,  it 
is  a  mercy  I  hae  no  feelin's,"  she  said 
when  he  had  done. 

"  Ony  wuman  can  lay  a  claim  till  me 
'at  likes,  ye  see,"  said  Malcolm. 

"She  may  lay  'at  she  likes,  but  it's  no 
illka  &gg  laid  has  a  chuckie  intill  't," 
answered  Miss  Horn  sententiously.  "  Jist 
ye  gang  hame  to  auld  Duncan,  an'  tell 
him  to  turn  the  thing  ower  in  's  min'  till 
he's  able  to  sweir  to  the  verra  nicht  he 
fan'  the  bairn  in  's  lap.  But  no  ae  word 
maun  he  say  to  leevin'  sowl  aboot  it 
afore  it's  requiret  o'  'im." 

"  I  wad  be  the  son  o'  the  puirest  fish- 
er-wife i'  the  Seaton  raither  nor  hers," 
said  Malcolm  gloomily. 

"An'  it  shaws  ye  better  bred,"  said 
Miss  Horn.  "But  she'll  be  at  ye  er  lang, 
an'  tak  ye  tent  what  ye  say.  Dinna  flee 
in  her  face  :  lat  her  jaw  awa',  an'  mark 
her  words.  She  may  lat  a  streak  o'  licht 
oot  o'  her  dirk  lantren  oonawaurs." 

Malcolm  returned  to  Mr.  Graham. 
They  agreed  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  wait.  He  went  next  to  his  grand- 
father and  gave  him  Miss  Horn's  mes- 
sage. The  old  man  fell  a  thinking,  but 
could  not  be  certain  even  of  the  year  in 
which  he  had  left  his  home.  The  clouds 
hung  very  black  around  Malcolm's  hor- 
izon. 

Since  the  adventure  in  the  Baillies' 
Barn,  Lady  Florimel  had  been  on  a  visit 


196 


MALCOLM. 


in  Morayshire:  she  heard  nothing  of  the 
report  until  she  returned.  "  So  you're  a 
gentleman,  after  all,  Malcolm  ?"  she  said 
the  next  time  she  saw  him. 

The  expression  in  her  eyes  appeared 
to  him  different  from  any  he  had  en- 
countered there  before.  The  blood  rush- 
ed to  his  face  :  he  dropped  his  head, 
and  saying  merely,  "It  maun  be  a'  as  it 
maun,"  pursued  the  occupation  of  the 
moment. 

But  her  words  sent  a  new  wind  blow- 
ing into  the  fog.  A  gentleman,  she  had 
said.  Gentlemen  married  ladies  !  Could 
it  be  that  a  glory  it  was  madness  to  dream 
of  was  yet  a  possibility  ?  One  moment, 
and  his  honest  heart  recoiled  from  the 
thought :  not  even  for  Lady  Florimel 
could  he  consent  to  be  the  son  of  that 
woman  !  Yet  the  thought,  especially  in 
Lady  Florimel's  presence,  would  return, 
would  linger,  would  whisper,  would 
tempt. 

In  Florimel's  mind  also  a  small  de- 
mon of  romance  was  at  work.  Uncor- 
rupted  as  yet  by  social  influences,  it 
would  not  have  seemed  to  her  absurd 
that  an  heiress  of  rank  should  marry  a 
poor  country  gentleman.  But  the  thought 
of  marriage  never  entered  her  head  :  she 
only  felt  that  the  discovery  justified  a 
nearer  approach  from  both  sides.  She 
had  nothing,  not  even  a  flirtation,  in 
view.  Flirt  she  might,  likely  enough, 
but  she  did  not  foremean  it. 

Had  Malcolm  been  a  schemer,  he 
would  have  tried  to  make  something  of 
his  position.  But  even  the  growth  of 
his  love  for  his  young  mistress  was  held 
in  check  by  the  fear  of  what  that  love 
tempted  him  to  desire. 

Lady  Florimel  had  by  this  time  got  so 
used  to  his  tone  and  dialect,  hearing  it 
on  all  sides  of  her,  that  its  quaintness 
had  ceased  to  affect  her,  and  its  coarse- 
ness had  begun  to  influence  her  repul- 
sively. There  were  still  to  be  found  in 
Scotland  old-fashioned  gentlefolk  speak- 
ing the  language  of  the  country  with 
purity  and  refinement,  but  Florimel  had 
never  met  any  of  them,  or  she  might 
possibly  have  been  a  little  less  repelled 
by  Malcolm's  speech. 

Within  a  day  or  two  of  her  return  Mrs. 


Stewart  called  at  Lossie  House  and  had 
a  long  talk  with  her,  in  the  course  of 
which  she  found  no  difficulty  in  gaining 
her  to  promise  her  influence  with  Mal- 
colm. From  his  behavior  on  the  occa- 
sion of  their  sole  interview  she  stood  in 
a  vague  awe  of  him,  and  indeed  could 
not  recall  it  without  a  feeling  of  rebuke 
— a  feeling  which  must  either  turn  her 
aside  from  her  purpose  or  render  her  the 
more  anxious  to  secure  his  favor.  Hence 
it  came  that  she  had  not  yet  sought  him : 
she  would  have  the  certainty  first  that  he 
was  kindly  disposed  toward  her  claim — 
a  thing  she  would  never  have  doubted 
but  for  the  glimpse  she  had  had  of  him. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  about  this 
time  Mr.  Stewart  put  his  head  in  at  the 
door  of  the  schoolroom,  as  he  had  done 
so  often  already,  and  seeing  the  master 
seated  alone  at  his  desk,  walked  in,  say- 
ing once  more,  with  a  polite  bow,  "  I  din- 
na  ken  whaur  I  cam  frae :  I  want  to 
come  to  the  school." 

Mr.  Graham  assured  him  of  welcome 
as  cordially  as  if  it  had  been  the  first 
time  he  came  with  the  request,  and  yet 
again  offered  him  a  chair ;  but  the  laird 
as  usual  declined  it,  and  walked  down 
the  room  to  find  a  seat  with  his  com- 
panion-scholars. He  stopped  midway, 
however,  and  returned  to  the  desk,  where, 
standing  on  tiptoe,  he  whispered  in  the 
master's  ear,  "  I  canna  come  upo'  the 
door."  Then  turning  away  again,  he 
crept  dejectedly  to  a  seat  where  some  of 
the  girls  had  made  room  for  him.  There 
he  took  a  slate,  and  began  drawing  what 
might  seem  an  attempt  at  a  door,  but 
ever  as  he  drew  he  blotted  it  out,  and 
nothing  that  could  be  called  a  door  was 
the  result.  Meantime,  Mr.  Graham  was 
pondering  at  intervals  what  he  had  said. 

School  being  over,  the  laird  was  mod- 
estly leaving  with  the  rest  when  the  mas- 
ter gently  called  him,  and  requested  the 
favor  of  a  moment  more  of  his  company. 
As  soon  as  they  were  alone  he  took  a 
Bible  from  his  desk  and  read  the  words, 
"  I  am  the  door :  by  me  if  any  man  enter 
in,  he  shall  be  saved,  and  shall  go  in  and 
out,  and  find  pasture." 

Without  comment  he  closed  the  book 
and   put   it   away.     Mr.   Stewart    stood 


MALCOLM. 


197 


staring  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  then 
turned,  and  gently  murmuring,  "  I  canna 
win  at  the  door,"  walked  from  the  school- 
house. 

It  was  refuge  the  poor  fellow  sought — 
whether  from  temporal  or  spiritual  foes 
will  matter  little  to  him  who  believes  that 
the  only  shelter  from  the  one  is  the  only 
shelter  from  the  other  also. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 
THE   BAILLIES'    BARN   AGAIN. 

It  began  to  be  whispered  about  Port- 
lossie  that  the  marquis  had  been  present 
at  one  of  the  fishermen's  meetings — a 
report  which  variously  affected  the  minds 
of  those  in  the  habit  of  composing  them. 
Some  regarded  it  as  an  act  of  espial,  and 
much  foolish  talk  arose  about  the  Cov- 
enanters and  persecution  and  martyr- 
dom. Others,  especially  the  less  worthy 
of  those  capable  of  public  utterance — 
who  were  by  this  time,  in  virtue  of  that 
sole  gift,  gaining  an  influence  of  which 
they  were  altogether  unworthy  —  attrib- 
uted it  to  the  spreading  renown  of  the 
preaching  and  praying  members  of  the 
community,  and  each  longed  for  an  op- 
portunity of  exercising  his  individual  gift 
upon  the  conscience  of  the  marquis.  The 
soberer  portion  took  it  for  an  act  of  mere 
curiosity,  unlikely  to  be  repeated. 

Malcolm  saw  that  the  only  way  of  set- 
ting things  right  was  that  the  marquis 
should  go  again  —  openly — but  it  was 
with  much  difficulty  that  he  persuaded 
him  to  present  himself  in  the  assembly. 
Again  accompanied  by  his  daughter  and 
Malcolm,  he  did,  however,  once  more 
cross  the  links  to  the  Baillies'  Barn.  Be- 
ing early,  they  had  a  choice  of  seats,  and 
Florimel  placed  herself  beside  a  pretty 
young  woman  of  gentle  and  troubled 
countenance  who  sat  leaning  against  the 
side  of  the  cavern. 

The  preacher  on  this  occasion  was  the 
sickly  young  student  —  more  pale  and 
haggard  than  ever,  and  halfway  nearer 
the  grave  since  his  first  sermon.  He  still 
set  himself  to  frighten  the  sheep  into  the 
fold  by  wolfish  cries ;  but  it  must  be  al- 
lowed that,  in  this  sermon  at  least,  his 


representations  of  the  miseries  of  the 
lost  were  not  by  any  means  so  gross  as 
those  usually  favored  by  preachers  of 
his  kind.  His  imagination  was  sensitive 
enough  to  be  roused  by  the  words  of 
Scripture  themselves,  and  was  not  de- 
pendent for  stimulus  upon  those  of  Vir- 
gil, Dante  or  Milton.  Having  taken  for 
his  text  the  fourteenth  verse  of  the  fifty- 
ninth  Psalm,  "And  at  evening  let  them 
return  ;  and  let  them  make  a  noise  like 
a  dog,  and  go  round  about  the  city,"  he 
dwelt  first  upon  the  condition  and  cha- 
racter of  the  Eastern  dogs  as  contrasted 
with  those  of  our  dogs ;  pointing  out  to 
his  hearers  that  so  far  from  being  valued 
for  use  or  beauty  or  rarity,  they  were, 
except  swine,  of  all  animals  the  most 
despised  by  the  Jews — the  vile  outcasts 
of  the  border -land  separating  animals 
domestic  and  ferine — filthy,  dangerous 
and  hated ;  then  associating  with  his 
text  that  passage  in  the  Revelation, 
"Blessed  are  they  that  do  his  command- 
ments, that  they  may  have  right  to  the 
tree  of  life,  and  may  enter  in  through 
the  gates  into  the  city ;  for  without  are 
dogs,"  he  propounded,  or  rather  assert- 
ed, that  it  described  one  variety  of  the 
many  punishments  of  the  wicked,  show- 
ing at  least  a  portion  of  them  condemn- 
ed to  rush  howling  for  ever  about  the 
walls  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  haunting 
the  gates  they  durst  not  enter. 

"  See  them  through  the  fog  steaming 
up  from  the  shores  of  their  Phlegethon  !" 
he  cried,  warming  into  eloquence;  "see 
the  horrid  troop  afar  from  the  crystal 
walls !  —  if  indeed  ye  stand  on  those 
heights  of  glory,  and  course  not  around 
them  with  the  dogs — hear  them  howl 
and  bark  as  they  scour  along  !  Gaze  at 
them  more  earnestly  as  they  draw  nigh- 
er ;  see  upon  the  dog-heads  of  them  the 
signs  and  symbols  of  rank  and  authority 
which  they  wore  when  they  walked  erect, 
men — ay,  women  too,  among  men  and 
women  :  see  the  crown-jewels  flash  over 
the  hanging  ears,  the  tiara  tower  thrice- 
circled  over  the  hungry  eyes !  see  the 
plumes  and  the  coronets,  the  hoods  and 
the  veils !" 

Here,  unhappily  for  his  eloquence,  he 
slid  off  into  the  catalogue  of  women's 


igS 


MALCOLM. 


finery  given  by  the  prophet  Isaiah,  at 
the  close  of  which  he  naturally  found 
the  oratorical  impulse  gone,  and  had  to 
sit  down  in  the  mud  of  an  anticlimax. 
Presently,  however,  he  recovered  him- 
self, and  spreading  his  wings  once  more 
swung  himself  aloft  into  the  empyrean 
of  an  eloquence  which,  whatever  else  it 
might  or  might  not  be,  was  at  least 
genuine. 

"  Could  they  but  surmount  those  walls 
whose  inherent  radiance  is  the  artillery 
of  their  defence  —  those  walls  high-up- 
lifted, whose  lowest  foundations  are  such 
stones  as  make  the  glory  of  earthly 
crowns — could  they  overleap  those  gates 
of  pearl  and  enter  the  golden  streets, 
what,  think  ye,  would  they  do  there  ? 
Think  ye  they  would  rage  hither  and 
thither  at  will,  making  horrid  havoc 
amongst  the  white-robed  inhabitants  of 
the  sinless  capital  ?  Nay,  verily  ;  for  in 
the  gold  transparent  as  glass  they  would 
see  their  own  vile  forms  in  truth-telling 
reflex,  and  turning  in  agony  would  rush 
yelling  back,  out  again  into  the  darkness, 
the  outer  darkness,  to  go  round  and 
round  the  city  again  and  for  evermore, 
tenfold  tortured  henceforth  with  the 
memory  of  their  visioned  selves." 

Here  the  girl  beside  Lady  Florimel 
gave  a  loud  cry,  and  fell  backward  from 
her  seat.  On  all  sides  arose  noises,  loud 
or  suppressed,  mingled  with  murmurs  of 
expostulation.  Even  Lady  Florimel,  in- 
vaded by  shrieks,  had  to  bite  her  lips 
hard  to  keep  herself  from  responding 
with  like  outcry ;  for  scream  will  call 
forth  scream,  as  vibrant  string  from  its 
neighbor  will  draw  the  answering  tone. 

"  Deep  calleth  unto  deep  !  The  wind 
is  blowing  on  the  slain !  The  spirit  is 
breathing  on  the  dry  bones !"  shouted 
the  preacher  in  an  ecstasy.  But  one  who 
rose  from  behind  Lizzy  Findlay  had  ar- 
rived at  another  theory  regarding  the 
origin  of  the  commotion  ;  and  doubtless 
had  a  right  to  her  theory,  inasmuch  as 
she  was  a  woman  of  experience,  being 
no  other  than  Mrs.  Catanach. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  seeking  to 
soothe  the  girl,  Malcolm  shuddered  ;  but 
the  next  moment,  from  one  of  those 
freaks  of  suggestion  which  defy  analysis, 


he  burst  into  laughter :  he  had  a  glimpse 
of  a  she-dog,  in  Mrs.  Catanach's  Sun- 
day bonnet,  bringing  up  the  rear  of  the 
preacher's  canine  company,  and  his 
horror  of  the  woman  found  relief  in  an 
involuntary  outbreak  that  did  not  spring 
altogether  from  merriment. 

It  attracted  no  attention.  The  cries 
increased,  for  the  preacher  continued  to 
play  on  the  harp-nerves  of  his  hearers, 
in  the  firm  belief  that  the  Spirit  was  be- 
ing poured  out  upon  them.  The  mar- 
quis, looking  very  pale,  for  he  could 
never  endure  the  cry  of  a  woman,  even 
in  a  play,  rose,  and  taking  Florimel  by 
the  arm,  turned  to  leave  the  place.  Mal- 
colm hurried  to  the  front  to  make  way 
for  them.  But  the  preacher  caught  sight 
of  the  movement,  and  filled  with  a  fury 
which  seemed  to  him  sacred  rushed  to 
the  rescue  of  souls.  "  Stop  !"  he  shout- 
ed. "Go  not  hence,  I  charge  you.  On 
your  lives  I  charge  you  !  Turn  ye,  turn 
ye  :  why  will  ye  die  ?  There  is  no  flee- 
ing from  Satan.  You  must  resist  the 
devil.  He  that  flies  is  lost.  If  you  turn 
your  backs  upon  ApoUyon,  he  will  never 
slacken  pace  until  he  has  driven  you  into 
the  troop  of  his  dogs,  to  go  howling 
about  the  walls  of  the  city.  Stop  them, 
friends  of  the  cross,  ere  they  step  be- 
yond the  sound  of  mercy  ;  for,  alas  !  the 
voice  of  him  who  is  sent  cannot  reach 
beyond  the  particle  of  time  wherein  he 
speaks.  Now,  this  one  solitary  moment, 
gleaming  out  of  the  eternity  before  us 
only  to  be  lost  in  the  eternity  behind  us 
— this  now  is  the  accepted  time ;  this 
NOW  and  no  other  is  the  moment  of 
salvation !" 

Most  of  the  men  recognized  the  mar- 
quis :  some  near  the  entrance  saw  only 
Malcolm  clearing  the  way.  Marquis  or 
fisher,  it  was  all  the  same  when  souls 
were  at  stake :  they  crowded  with  one 
consent  to  oppose  their  exit :  yet  another 
chance  they  must  have,  whether  they 
would  or  not.  These  men  were  in  the 
mood  to  give — not  their  own — but  those 
other  men's  bodies  to  be  burnt  on  the 
poorest  chance  of  saving  their  souls  from 
the  everlasting  burnings. 

Malcolm  would  have  been  ready 
enough  for  a  fight  had  he  and  the  mar- 


MALCOLM. 


199 


quis  been  alone,  but  the  presence  of 
Lady  Florimel  put  it  out  of  the  question. 
Looking  round,  he  sought  the  eye  of  his 
master. 

Had  Lord  Lossie  been  wise,  he  would 
at  once  have  yielded,  and  sat  down  to 
endure  to  the  end.  But  he  jumped  on 
the  form  next  him  and  appealed  to  the 
common  sense  of  the  assembly.  "  Don't 
you  see  the  man  is  mad  ?"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  the  preacher.  "  He  is  foaming  at 
the  mouth.  For  God's  sake  look  after 
your  women  :  he  will  have  them  all  in 
hysterics  in  another  five  minutes.  I 
wonder  any  man  of  sense  would  coun- 
tenance such  things !" 

As  to  hysterics,  the  fisher-folk  had 
never  heard  of  them ;  and  though  the 
words  of  the  preacher  were  not  those  of 
soberness,  they  yet  believed  them  the 
words  of  truth,  and  himself  a  far  saner 
man  than  the  marquis, 

"Gien  a  body  comes  to  cor  meetin'," 
cried  one  of  them,  a  fine  specimen  of 
the  argle-bargling  Scotchman — a  crea- 
iTire  known  and  detested  over  the  habit- 
?.ble  globe — ^"he  maun  just  du  as  we  du, 
an'  sit  it  oot.     It's  for  yer  sowl's  guid." 

The  preacher,  checked  in  full  career, 
was  standing  with  open  mouth,  ready  to 
burst  forth  in  a  fresh  flood  of  oratory  so 
soon  as  the  open  channels  of  hearing 
ears  should  be  again  granted  him  ;  but 
all  were  now  intent  on  the  duel  between 
the  marquis  and  Jamie  Ladle. 

"  If  the  next  time  you  came  you  found 
the  entrance  barricaded,"  said  the  mar- 
quis, "what  would  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"Ow,  we  wad  jist  tak  doon  the  sticks," 
answered  Ladle. 

"You  would  call  it  persecution,  wouldn't 
you  r" 

"Ay,  it  wad  be  that." 

"And  what  do  you  call  it  now,  when 
you  prevent  a  man  from  going  his  own 
way  after  he  has  had  enough  of  your 
foolery  ?" 

"Ow,  we  ca'  't  dissiplene,"  answered 
the  fellow. 

The  marquis  got  down,  annoyed,  but 
laughing  at  his  own  discomfiture. 

"  I've  stopped  the  screaming  anyhow," 
he  said. 

Ere  the  preacher,  the  tap  of  whose 


eloquence  presently  began  to  yield  again, 
but  at  first  ran  very  slow,  had  gathered 
way  enough  to  carry  his  audience  with 
him,  a  woman  rushed  up  to  the  mouth 
of  the  cave,  the  borders  of  her  cap  flap- 
ping, and  her  gray  hair  flying  like  an 
old  Maenad's.  Brandishing  in  her  hand 
the  spurtle  with  which  she  had  been 
making  the  porridge  for  supper,  she  cried 
in  a  voice  that  reached  every  ear,  "What's 
this  I  hear  o'  't !  Come  oot  o'  that,  Liz- 
zy, ye  limmer !  Ir  ye  gaun'  frae  ill  to 
waur,  i'  the  deevil's  name  ?" 

It  was  Meg  Partan.  She  sent  the  con- 
gregation right  and  left  from  her,  as  a 
ship  before  the  wind  sends  a  wave  from 
each  side  of  her  bows.  Men  and  wo- 
men gave  place  to  her,  and  she  went 
surging  into  the  midst  of  the  assembly. 
"Whaur's  that  lass  o'  mine  ?"  she  cried, 
looking  about  her  in  aggravated  wrath 
at  failing  to  pounce  right  upon  her. 

"She's  no  verra  weel,  Mistress  Find- 
lay,"  cried  Mrs.  Catanach  in  a  loud  whis- 
per, laden  with  an  insinuating  tone  of 
intercession.  "She'll  be  better  in  a  meen- 
ute.  The  minister's  jist  ower  pooerfu' 
the  nicht." 

Mrs.  Findlay  made  a  long  reach,  caught 
Lizzy  by  the  arm  and  dragged  her  forth, 
looking  scared  and  white,  with  a  red  spot 
upon  one  cheek.  No  one  dared  to  bar 
Meg's  exit  with  her  prize  ;  and  the  mar- 
quis, with  Lady  Florimel  and  Malcolm, 
took  advantage  of  the  opening  she  made, 
and  following  in  her  wake  soon  reached 
the  open  air. 

Mrs.  Findlay  was  one  of  the  i^w  of 
the  fisherwomen  who  did  not  approve 
of  conventicles,  being  a  great  stickler  for 
every  authority  in  the  country  except  that 
of  husbands,  in  which  she  declared  she 
did  not  believe :  a  report  had  reached 
her  that  Lizzy  was  one  of  the  lawless  that 
evening,  and  in  hot  haste  she  had  left 
the  porridge  on  the  fire  to  drag  her  home. 

"This  is  the  second  predicament  you 
have  got  us  into,  MacPhail,"  said  his 
lordship  as  they  walked  along  the  Boar's 
Tail  —  the  name  by  which  some  desig- 
nated the  dune,  taking  the  name  of  the 
rock  at  the  end  of  it  to  be  the  Boar's 
Craig,  and  the  last  word  to  mean,  as 
it  often  does,  not  crag,  but   neck,  like 


200 


MALCOLM. 


the  German  kragen,  and  perhaps  the 
Enghsh  scrag. 

"I'm  sorry  for't,  my  lord,"  said  Mal- 
colm, "but  I'm  sure  yer  lordship  had  the 
worth  o'  't  in  fun." 

"  I  can't  deny  that,"  returned  the  mar- 
quis. 

"And  /  can't  get  that  horrid  shriek 
out  of  my  ears,"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

"Which  of  them?"  said  her  father. 
"There  was  no  end  to  the  shrieking.  It 
nearly  drove  me  wild." 

"  I  mean  the  poor  girl's  who  sat  beside 
us,  papa.  Such  a  pretty,  nice-looking 
creature  too  !  And  that  horrid  woman 
close  behind  us  all  the  time !  I  hope 
you  won't  go  again,  papa.  They'll 
convert  you  if  you  do,  and  never  ask 
your  leave.  You  wouldn't  like  that,  / 
know." 

"What  do  you  say  to  shutting  up  the 
place  altogether?" 

''Do,  papa.  It's  shocking,  vulgar  and 
horrid  !" 

"  I  wad  think  tvvise,  my  lord,  afore  I 
wad  sair  [serve)  them  as  ill  as  they  saired 
me." 

"Did  I  ask  your  advice?"  said  the 
marquis  sternly. 

"  It's  nane  the  waur  'at  it  's  gien  oon- 
soucht,"  said  Malcolm.  "  It's  the  richt 
thing,  ony  gait." 

"You  presume  on  this  foolish  report 
about  you,  I  suppose,  MacPhail,"  said 
his  lordship  ;  "but  that  won't  do." 

"  God  forgie  ye,  my  lord,  for  I  hae  ill 
duin'  't !  [Jind  it  difficult)"  said  Mal- 
colm. 

He  left  them,  and  walked  down  to  the 
foamy  lip  of  the  tide,  which  was  just 
•waking  up  from  its  faint  recession.  A 
cold  glimmer,  which  seemed  to  come 
from  nothing  but  its  wetness,  was  all  the 
rsea  had  to  say  for  itself. 

But  the  marquis  smiled,  and  turned 
his  face  toward  the  wind  which  was 
{blowing  from  the  south. 

In  a  few  moments  Malcolm  came  back, 
but  to  follow  behind  them  and  say  noth- 
ing more  that  night. 

The  marquis  did  not  interfere  with  the 
fishermen.  Having  heard  of  their  rude- 
ness, Mr.  Cairns  called  again  and  press- 
ed him  to  end  the  whole  thing,  but  he 


said  they  would  only  be  after  something 
worse,  and  refused. 

The  turn  things  had  taken  that  night 
determined  their  after  course.  Cryings 
out  and  faintings  grew  common,  and  fits 
began  to  appear.  A  few  laid  claim  to 
visions,  bearing,  it  must  be  remarked,  a 
strong  resemblance  to  the  similitudes, 
metaphors  and  more  extended  poetic  fig- 
■ures  employed  by  the  young  preacher, 
becoming  at  length  a  little  more  original 
and  a  good  deal  more  grotesque.  They 
took  to  dancing  at  last,  not  by  any  means 
the  least  healthful  mode  of  working  off 
their  excitement.  It  was,  however,  hard- 
ly more  than  a  dull  beating  of  time  to 
the  monotonous  chanting  of  a  few  re- 
ligious phrases,  rendered  painfully  com- 
monplace by  senseless  repetition. 

I  would  not  be  supposed  to  deny  the 
genuineness  of  the  emotion,  or  even  of 
the  religion,  in  many  who  thus  gave 
show  to  their  feelings.  But  neither  those 
who  were  good  before  nor  those  M'ho 
were  excited  now  were  much  the  better 
for  this  and  like  modes  of  playing  off 
the  mental  electricity  generated  by  the 
revolving  cylinder  of  intercourse.  Nat- 
urally, such  men  as  Joseph  Mair  now 
grew  shy  of  the  assemblies  they  had 
helped  to  originate,  and  withdrew — at 
least  into  the  background:  the  reins 
slipped  from  the  hands  of  the  first  lead- 
ers, and  such  windbags  as  Ladle  got  up 
to  drive  the  chariot  of  the  gospel  with 
the  results  that  could  not  fail  to  follow. 
At  the  same  time  it  must  be  granted  that 
the  improvement  of  their  habits,  in  so 
far  as  strong  drink  was  concerned,  con- 
tinued :  it  became  almost  a  test  of  faith 
with  them  whether  or  not  a  man  was 
a  total  abstainer.  Hence  their  moral 
manners,  so  to  say,  improved  greatly : 
there  were  no  more  public-house  orgies, 
no  fighting  in  the  streets,  very  little  of 
what  they  called  breaking  of  the  Sab- 
bath, and  altogether  there  was  a  mark- 
ed improvement  in  the  look  of  things 
along  a  good  many  miles  of  that  north- 
ern shore. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  however,  mo- 
rality, in  the  deeper  sense,  remained  very 
much  at  the  same  low  ebb  as  before.  It 
is  much  easier  to  persuade  men  that  God 


MALCOLM. 


20 1 


cares  for  certain  observances  than  that 
he  cares  for  simple  honesty  and  truth 
and  gentleness  and  loving  -  kindness. 
The  man  who  would  shudder  at  the  idea 
of  a  rough  word  of  the  description  com- 
monly called  swearing  will  not  even 
have  a  twinge  of  conscience  after  a  whole 
morning  of  ill-tempered  sullenness,  ca- 
pricious scolding,  villainously  unfair  ani- 
madversion or  surly  cross-grained  treat- 
ment generally  of  wife  and  children. 
Such  a  man  will  omit  neither  family 
worship  nor  a  sneer  at  his  neighbor.  He 
will  neither  milk  his  cow  on  the  first  day 
of  the  week  without  a  Sabbath  mask  on 
his  face,  nor  remove  it  while  he  waters 
the  milk  for  his  customers.  Yet  he  may 
not  be  an  absolute  hypocrite.  What  can 
be  done  for  him,  however,  hell  itself  may 
have  to  determine. 

Notwithstanding  their  spiritual  experi- 
ences, it  was,  for  instance,  no  easier  to 
get  them  to  pay  their  debts  than  here- 
tofore. Of  CO  rse  there  were,  and  had 
always  been,  thoroughly  honest  men 
and  women  amongst  them ;  but  there 
were  others  who  took  prominent  part  in 
their  observances  who  seemed  to  have 
no  remotest  suspicion  that  religion  had 
anything  to  do  with  money  or  money's 
worth — not  to  know  that  God  cared 
whether  a  child  of  his  met  his  obliga- 
tions or  not.  Such  fulfilled  the  injunc- 
tion to  owe  nothing  by  acknowledging 
nothing.  One  man,  when  pressed,  gave 
as  a  reason  for  his  refusal  that  Christ 
had  paid  all  his  debts.  Possibly  this 
contemptible  state  of  feeling  had  been 
fostered  by  an  old  superstition  that  it 
was  unlucky  to  pay  up  everything, 
whence  they  had  always  been  in  the 
habit  of  leaving  at  least  a  few  shillings 
of  their  shop-bills  to  be  carried  forward 
to  the  settlement  after  the  next  fishing- 
season.  But  when  a  widow  whose  hus- 
band had  left  property  would  acknow- 
ledge no  obligation  to  discharge  his 
debts,  it  came  to  be  rather  more  than  a 
mere  whim.  Evidently,  the  religion  of 
many  of  them  was  as  yet  of  a  very  poor 
sort,  precisely  like  that  of  tl\p  negroes, 
whose  devotion  so  far  outstrips  their 
morality. 

If  there  had  but  been  some  one  of 


themselves  to  teach  that  the  true  outlet 
and  sedative  of  overstrained  feeling  is 
right  action ! — that  the  performance  of 
an  unpleasant  duty,  say  the  paying  of 
their  debts,  was  a  far  more  effectual  as 
well  as  more  specially  religious  mode  of 
working  off  their  excitement  than  dan- 
cing I — that  feeling  is  but  the  servant  of 
character  until  it  becomes  its  child,  or, 
rather,  th^t  feeling  is  but  a  mere  vapor 
until  condensed  into  character! — that 
the  onfy  process  through  which  it  can  be 
thus  consolidated  is  well-doing,  the  put- 
ting forth  of  the  right  thing  according  to 
the  conscience  universal  and  individual ! 
— and  that  thus,  and  thus  only,  can  the  veil 
be  withdrawn  from  between  the  man  and 
his  God,  and  the  man  be  saved  in  behold- 
ing the  face  of  his  Father  ! 

"  But  have  patience — give  them  time," 
said  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  watched  the 
whole  thing  from  the  beginning.  "  If  their 
religion  is  religion,  it  will  work  till  it  puri- 
fies :  if  it  is  not,  it  will  show  itself  for  what 
it  is  by  plunging  them  into  open  vice.  The 
mere  excitement  and  its  extravagance — 
the  mode  in  which  their  gladness  breaks 
out — means  nothing  either  way.  The 
man  is  the  w-illing,  performing  being,  not 
the  feeling,  shouting,  singing  being :  in 
the  latter  there  may  be  no  individuality 
— nothing  more  than  receptivity  of  the 
movement  of  the  mass.  But  when  a 
man  gets  up  and  goes  out  and  discharges 
an  obligation,  he  is  an  individual :  to 
him  God  has  spoken,  and  he  has  opened 
his  ears  to  hear.  God  and  that  man  are 
henceforth  in  communion." 

These  doings,  however,  gave  —  how 
should  they  fail  to  give  ? — a  strong  handle 
to  the  grasp  of  those  who  cared  for  noth- 
ing in  religion  but  its  respectability — who 
went  to  church,  Sunday  after  Sunday, 
"for  the  sake  of  example,"  as  they  said 
— the  most  arrogant  of  pharisaical  rea- 
sons. Many  a  screeching,  dancing  fish- 
er-lass in  the  Seaton  was  far  nearer  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  than  the  most  re- 
spectable of  such  respectable  people.  I 
would  unspeakably  rather  dance  with  the 
wildest  of  fanatics  rejoicing  over  a  change 
in  their  own  spirits  than  sit  in  the  seat 
of  the  dull  of  heart  to  whom  the  old 
story  is  an  outworn  tale. 


202 


MALCOLM. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 
MOUNT   PISGAH. 

The  intercourse  between  Florimel  and 
Malcolm  grew  gradually  more  familiar, 
until  at  length  it  was  often  hardly  to  be 
distinguished  from  such  as  takes  place 
between  equals,  and  Florimel  was  by 
degrees  forgetting  the  present  condition 
in  the  possible  future  of  the  young  man. 
But  Malcolm,  on  the  other  hand,  as  often 
as  the  thought  of  that  possible  future 
arose  in  her  presence,  flung  it  from  him 
in  horror,  lest  the  wild  dream  of  winning 
her  should  make  him  for  a  moment  de- 
sire its  realization. 

'  The  claim  that  hung  over  him  haunted 
his  very  life,  turning  the  currents  of  his 
thought  into  channels  of  speculation  un- 
known before.  Imagine  a  young  fisher- 
man meditating,  as  he  wandered  with 
bent  head  through  the  wilder  woods  on 
the  steep  banks  of  the  burn,  or  the  little 
green  levels  which  it  overflowed  in  the 
winter,  of  all  possible  subjects  —  what 
analogy  there  might  be  'twixt  the  body 
and  the  soul  in  respect  of  derivation ; 
whether  the  soul  was  traduced  as  well 
as  the  body  ;  as  his  material  form  came 
from  the  forms  of  his  father  and  mother, 
did  his  soul  come  from  their  souls  ?  or 
did  the  Maker,  as  at  the  first  he  breath- 
ed his  breath  into  the  form  of  Adam, 
still,  at  some  crisis  unknown  in  its  crea- 
tion, breathe  into  each  form  the  breath 
of  individual  being  ?  If  the  latter  theory 
were  the  true,  then,  be  his  earthly  origin 
what  it  might,  he  had  but  to  shuffle  off 
this  mortal  coil  to  walk  forth  a  clean 
thing,  as  a  prince  might  cast  off  the  rags 
of  an  enforced  disguise  and  set  out  for 
the  land  of  his  birth.  If  the  former 
were  the  true,  then  the  well-spring  of  his 
being  was  polluted,  nor  might  he  by  any 
death  fling  aside  his  degradation  or  show 
himself  other  than  defiled  in  the  eyes  of 
the  old  dwellers  in  "those  high  countries  " 
where  all  things  seem  as  they  are,  and 
are  as  they  seem. 

One  day  when,  these  questions  fight- 
ing in  his  heart,  he  had  for  the  hundredth 
time  arrived  thus  far,  all  at  once  it  seem- 
ed as  if  a  soundless  voice  in  the  depth 
of  his  soul  replied,  "  Even  then — should 
the  well-spring  of  thy  life  be  polluted 


with  vilest  horrors  such  as,  in  Persian 
legends,  the  lips  of  the  lost  are  doomed 
to  drink  with  loathings  inconceivable — 
the  well  is  but  the  utterance  of  the  wa- 
ter, not  the  source  of  its  existence :  the 
rain  is  its  father,  and  comes  from  the 
sweet  heavens.  Thy  soul,  however  it 
became  known  to  itself,  is  from  the  pure 
heart  of  God, -whose  thought  of  thee  is 
older  than  thy  being — is  its  first  and  eld- 
est cause.  Thy  essence  cannot  be  de- 
filed, for  in  Him  it  is  eternal." 

Even  with  the  thought  the  horizon  of 
his  life  began  to  clear :  a  light  came  out 
on  the  far  edge  of  its  ocean — a  dull  and 
sombre  yellow,  it  is  true,  and  the  clouds 
hung  yet  heavy  over  sea  and  land,  while 
miles  of  vapor  hid  the  sky,  but  he  could 
now  believe  there  might  be  a  blue  be- 
yond in  which  the  sun  lorded  it  with 
majesty. 

He  had  been  rambling  on  the  waste 
hill  in  which  the  grounds  of  Lossie  House, 
as  it  were,  dissipated.  It  had  a  far  out- 
look, but  he  had  beheld  neither  sky  nor 
ocean.  The  Soutars  of  Cromarty  had 
all  the  time  sat  on  their  stools  large  in 
his  view;  the  hills  of  Sutherland  had  in- 
vited his  gaze,  rising  faint  and  clear  over 
the  darkened  water  at  their  base,  less 
solid  than  the  sky  in  which  they  were 
set,  and  less  a  fact  than  the  clouds  that 
crossed  their  breasts  ;  the  land  of  Caith- 
ness had  lain  lowly  and  afar,  as  if,  weary 
of  great  things,  it  had  crept  away  in 
tired  humility  to  the  rigors  of  the  North ; 
and  east  and  west  his  own  rugged  shore 
had  gone  lengthening  out,  fringed  with 
the  white  burst  of  the  dark  sea  ;  but  none 
of  all  these  things  had  he  noted. 

Lady  Florimel  suddenly  encountered 
him  on  his  way  home,  and  was  startled 
by  his  look.  "Where  have  you  been, 
Malcolm  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  hardly  ken,  my  leddy,"  he  answer- 
ed :  "  somewhaur  aboot  the  feet  o'  Mount 
Pisgah,  I'm  thinkin',  if  no  freely  upo'  the 
held  o'  't." 

"  That's  not  the  name  of  the  hill  up 
there  ?" 

"Ow  na:  yon's  the  Binn." 

"  What  have  you  been  about  ?  Look- 
ing at  things  in  general,  I  suppose." 

"Na:  they've  been   luikin'  at   me,  ) 


MALCOLM. 


203 


daur  say,  but  I  didna  heed  them,  an' 
they  didna  fash  me." 

"You  look  so  strangely  bright,"  she 
said,  "  as  if  you  had  seen  something  both 
mar\-elous  and  beautiful." 

The  words  revealed  a  quality  of  in- 
sight not  hitherto  manifested  by  Flori- 
mel.  In  truth,  INIalcolm's  whole  being 
was  irradiated  by  the  flash  of  inward 
peace  that  had  just  visited  him — a  state- 
ment intelligible  and  therefore  credible 
enough  to  the  mind  accustomed  to  look 
over  the  battlements  of  the  walls  that 
clasp  the  fair  windows  of  the  senses. 
But  Florimel's  insight  had  reached  its 
limit,  and  her  judgment,  vainly  endeav- 
oring to  penetrate  farther,  fell  flounder- 
ing in  the  mud. 

"I  know,"  she  went  on.  "You  have 
been  to  see  your  lady  mother." 

jNIalcolm's  face  turned  white  as  if 
blasted  with  leprosy.  The  same  scourge 
that  had  maddened  the  poor  laird  fell 
hissing  on  his  soul,  and  its  knotted  sting 
was  the  same  word  mother.  He  turned 
and  walked  slowly  away,  fighting  a  tyran- 
nous impulse  to  thrust  his  fingers  in  his 
ears  and  run  and  shriek. 

"  Where  are  your  manners  ?"  cried  the 
girl  after  him,  but  he  never  stayed  his 
slow  foot  or  turned  his  bowed  head,  and 
Florimel  wondered. 

For  the  moment  his  new-found  peace 
had  vanished.  Even  if  the  old  nobility 
of  heaven  might  regard  him  without  a 
shadow  of  condescension  —  that  self- 
righteous  form  of  contempt — what  could 
he  do  with  a  mother  whom  he  could 
neither  honor  nor  love  ?  Love  !  If  he 
could  but  cease  to  hate  her !  There  was 
no  question  yet  of  loving. 

But  might  she  not  repent?  Ah,  then, 
indeed  !  And  might  he  not  help  her  to 
repent  ?  He  would  not  avoid  her.  How 
was  it  that  she  had  never  yet  sought 
him  ? 

As  he  brooded  thus  on  his  way  to 
Duncan's  cottage,  and,  heedless  of  the 
sound  of  coming  wheels,  was  crossing 
the  road  which  went  along  the  bottom 
of  the  glen,  he  was  nearly  run  over  by  a 
carriage  coming  round  the  corner  of  a 
high  bank  at  a  fast  trot.  Catching  one 
glimpse  of  the  face  of  its  occupant  as  it 


passed  within  a  yard  of  his  own,  he  turn- 
ed and  fled  back  through  the  woods, 
with  again  a  horrible  impulse  to  howl  to 
the  winds  the  cry  of  the  mad  laird,  "  I 
dinna  ken  whaur  I  cam  frae !"  When 
he  came  to  himself  he  found  his  hands 
pressed  hard  on  his  ears,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment felt  a  sickening  certainty  that  he 
too  was  a  son  of  the  lady  of  Gersefell. 

When  he  returned  at  length  to  the 
House,  Mrs.  Courthope  informed  him 
that  Mrs.  Stewart  had  called  and  seen 
both  the  marquis  and  Lady  Florimel. 

Meantime,  he  had  grown  again  a  little 
anxious  about  the  laird,  but,  as  Phemy 
plainly  avoided  him,  had  concluded  that 
he  had  found  another  concealment,  and 
that  the  child  preferred  not  being  ques- 
tioned concerning  it. 

W'ith  the  library  of  Lossie  House  at 
his  disposal,  and  almost  nothing  to  do, 
it  might  now  have  been  a  grand  time 
for  Malcolm's  studies  ;  but,  alas  !  he  too 
often  found  it  all  but  impossible  to  keep 
his  mind  on  the  track  of  a  thought 
through  a  single  sentence  of  any  length. 

The  autumn  now  hung  over  the  verge 
of  its  grave.  Hoar-frost,  thick  on  the 
fields,  made  its  mornings  look  as  if  they 
had  turned  gray  with  fear.  But  when 
the  sun  arose  grayness  and  fear  vanish- 
ed :  the  back-thrown  smile  of  the  depart- 
ing glory  was  enough  to  turn  old  age 
into  a  memory  of  youth.  Summer  was 
indeed  gone,  and  winter  was  nigh  with 
its  storms  and  its  fogs  and  its  rotting 
rains  and  its  drifting  snows,  but  the  sun 
was  yet  in  the  heavens,  and  changed  as 
was  his  manner  toward  her,  would  yet 
have  many  a  half  smile  for  the  poor  old 
earth — enough  to  keep  her  alive  until  he 
returned,  bringing  her  youth  with  him. 
To  the  man  who  believes  that  the  winter 
is  but  for  the  sake  of  the  summer,  ex- 
ists only  in  virtue  of  the  summer  at  its 
heart,  no  winter,  outside  or  in,  can 
be  unendurable.  But  Malcolm  sorely 
missed  the  ministrations  of  compulsion  : 
he  lacked  labor,  the  most  helpful  and 
most  healing  of  all  God's  holy  things, 
of  which  we  so  often  lose  the  heavenly 
benefit  by  laboring  inordinately  that  we 
may  rise  above  the  earthly  need  of  it. 
How  many  sighs  are   wasted  over  the 


204 


MALCOLM. 


toil  of  the  sickly : — a  toil  which  perhaps 
lifts  off  half  the  weight  of  their  sickness, 
elevates  their  inner  life  and  makes  the 
outer  pass  with  tenfold  rapidity.  Of 
those  who  honestly  pity  such,  many 
would  themselves  be  far  less  pitiable 
were  they  compelled  to  share  in  the  toil 
they  behold  with  compassion.  They  are 
unaware  of  the  healing  virtue  which  the 
thing  they  would  not  pity  at  all  were  it  a 
matter  of  choice  gains  from  the  compul- 
sion of  necessity. 

All  over  the  house  big  fires  were  glow- 
ing and  blazing.  Nothing  pleased  the 
marquis  worse  than  the  least  appearance 
of  stinting  the  consumption  of  coal.  In 
the  library  two  huge  gratefuls  were  burn- 
ing from  dawn  to  midnight — well  for  the 
books  anyhow,  if  their  owner  seldom 
showed  his  face  amongst  them.  There 
were  days  during  which,  except  the  ser- 
vant whose  duty  it  was  to  attend  to  the 
fires,  not  a  creature  entered  the  room 
but  Malcolm.  To  him  it  was  as  the 
cave  of  Aladdin  to  the  worshiper  of 
Mammon,  and  yet  now  he  would  often 
sit  down  indifferent  to  its  hoarded  splen- 
dors and  gather  no  jewels. 

But  one  morning,  as  he  sat  there  alone, 
in  an  oriel  looking  seaward,  there  lay  on 
a  table  before  him  a  thin  folio,  contain- 
ing the  chief  works  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
— amongst  the  rest  his  well-known  Re- 
ligio  Medici,  from  which  he  had  just 
read  the  following  passage:  "When  I 
take  a  full  view  and  circle  of  myself, 
without  this  reasonable  moderatour  and 
equall  piece  of  justice,  Death,  I  doe  con- 
ceive my  self  the  most  miserablest  per- 
son extant ;  were  there  not  another  life 
that  I  hoped  for,  all  the  vanities  of  this 
world  should  not  intreat  a  moment's 
breath  from  me ;  could  the  Devil  work 
my  belief  to  imagine  I  could  never  die, 
I  would  not  outlive  that  very  thought ; 
I  have  so  abject  a  conceit  of  this  com- 
mon way  of  existence,  this  retaining  to 
the  Sun  and  elements,  I  cannot  think 
this  is  to  be  a  man  or  to  live  according 
to  the  dignity  of  humanity.  In  expecta- 
tion of  a  better,  -I  can  with  patience  em- 
brace this  life,  yet  in  my  best  meditations 
do  often  desire  death  ;  I  honour  any  man 
that  contcmnes  it,  nor  can  I  highly  love 


any  that  is  afraid  of  it :  this  makes  me 
naturally  love  a  Soldier,  and  honour  those 
tatter'd  and  contemptible  Regiments  that 
will  die  at  the  command  of  a  Sergeant." 

These  words  so  fell  in  with  the  pre- 
vailing mood  of  his  mind  that,  having 
gathered  them,  they  grew  upon  him,  and 
as  he  pondered  them  he  sat  gazing  out 
on  the  bright  blowing  autumn  day.  The 
sky  was  dimmed  with  a  clear  pallor, 
across  which  small  white  clouds  were 
driving :  the  yellow  leaves  that  yet  clave 
to  the  twigs  were  few,  and  the  wind  swept 
through  the  branches  with  a  hiss.  The 
far-off  sea  was  alive  with  multitudinous 
white — the  rush  of  the  jubilant  over-sea 
across  the  blue  plain.  All  without  was 
merry,  healthy,  radiant,  strong :  in  his 
mind  brooded  a  single  haunting  thought 
that  already  had  almost  filled  his  horizon, 
threatening  by  exclusion  to  become  mad- 
ness. Why  should  he  not  leave  the  place, 
and  the  horrors  of  his  history  with  it  ? 
Then  the  hideous  hydra  might  unfold 
itself  as  it  pleased :  he  would  find  at 
least  a  better  fortune  than  his  birth  had 
endowed  him  withal. 

Lady  Florimel  entered  in  search  of 
something  to  read :  .to  her  surprise,  for 
she  had  heard  of  no  arrival,  in  one  of 
the  windows  sat  a  highland  gentleman 
looking  out  on  the  landscape.  She  was 
on  the  point  of  retiring  again  when  a 
slight  movement  revealed  Malcolm.  The 
explanation  was,  that  the  marquis,  their 
seafaring  over,  had  at  length  persuaded 
Malcolm  to  don  the  highland  attire  :  it 
was  an  old  custom  of  the  House  of  Los- 
sie  that  its  lord's  henchman  should  be 
thus  distinguished,  and  the  marquis  him- 
self wore  the  kilt  when  on  his  western 
estates  in  the  summer,  also  as  often  as 
he  went  to  court — would  indeed  have 
worn  it  always  but  that  he  was  no  longer 
hardy  enough.  He  would  not  have  suc- 
ceeded with  Malcolm,  however,  but  for 
the  youth's  love  to  Duncan,  the  fervent 
heat  of  which  vaporized  the  dark  heavy 
stone  of  obligation  into  the  purple  vapor 
of  gratitude,  and  enhanced  the  desire  of 
pleasing  him  until  it  became  almost  a 
passion.  Obligation  is  a  ponderous  roll 
of  canvas  which  Love  spreads  aloft  into 
a  tent  wherein  he  delights  to  dwell. 


MALCOLM. 


205 


This  was  his  first  appearance  in  the 
garments  of  Duncan's  race.  It  was  no 
little  trial  to  him  to  assume  them  in  the 
changed  aspect  of  his  circumstances ; 
for,  alas !  he  wore  them  in  right  of  ser- 
vice only,  not  of  birth,  and  the  tartan  of 
his  lord's  family  was  all  he  could  claim. 

He  had  not  heard  Lady  Florimel  enter. 
She  went  softly  up  behind  him  and  laid 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  started 
to  his  feet. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  she  said, 
retreating  a  step  or  two. 

"  I  wad  gie  twa  to  be  rid  o'  them,"  he 
returned,  shaking  his  bushy  head  as  if 
to  scare  the  invisible  ravens  hovering 
about  it. 

"How  fine  you  are!"  Florimel  went 
on,  regarding  him  with  an  approbation 
too  open  to  be  altogether  gratifying. 
"The  dress  suits  you  thoroughly.  I 
didn't  know  you  at  first :  I  thought  it 
must  be  some  friend  of  papa's.  Now  I 
remember  he  said  once  you  must  wear 
the  proper  dress  for  a  henchman.  How 
do  you  like  it?" 

"  It's  a'  ane  to  me,"  said  Malcolm.  "  I 
dinna  care  what  I  weir,  gien  only  I  had 
a  richt  till  't,"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

"  It  is  too  bad  of  you,  Malcolm,"  re- 
joined Florimel  in  a  tone  of  rebuke. 
"  The  moment  Fortune  offers  you  favor 
you  fall  out  with  her — won't  give  her  a 
single  smile.  You  don't  deserve  your 
good  luck." 

Malcolm  was  silent. 

"There's  something  on  your  mind," 
Florimel  went  on,  partly  from  willing- 
ness to  serve  Mrs.  Stewart,  partly  enticed 
by  the  romance  of  being  Malcolm's  com- 
forter, or  perhaps  confessor. 

"Ay  is  there,  my  leddy." 

"What  is  it  ?  Tell  me  :  you  can  trust 
me?" 

"  I  could  trust  ye,  but  I  canna  tell  ye. 
I  daurna — I  maunna." 

"I  see  you  will  not  trust  me,"  said 
Florimel,  with  a  half-pretended,  half-real 
offence. 

"  I  wad  lay  doon  my  life — what  there 
is  o'  't — for  ye,  my  leddy ;  but  the  verra 
natur'  o*  my  trouble  winna  be  tauld.  I 
maun  beir  't  my  lane." 

It  flashed  across  Lady  Florimel's  brain 


that  the  cause  of  his  misery,  the  thing 
he  dared  not  confess,  was  love  of  her- 
self. Now,  Malcolm,  standing  before 
her  in  his  present  dress  and  interpreted 
by  the  knowledge  she  believed  she  had 
of  his  history,  was  a  very  dilTerent  per- 
son indeed  from  the  former  Malcolm  in 
the  guise  of  fisherman  or  sailor,  and  she 
felt  as  well  as  saw  the  difference  :  if  she 
was  the  cause  of  his  misery,  why  should 
she  not  comfort  him  a  little  ?  why  should 
she  not  be  kind  to  him  ?  Of  course  any- 
thing more  was  out  of  the  question,  but 
a  little  confession  and  consolation  would 
hurt  neither  of  them.  Besides,  Mrs. 
Stewart  had  begged  her  influence,  and 
this  would  open  a  new  channel  for  its 
exercise.  Indeed,  if  he  was  unhappy 
through  her,  she  ought  to  do  what  she 
might  for  him.  A  gentle  word  or  two 
would  cost  her  nothing,  and  might  help 
to  heal  a  broken  heart.  She  was  hardly 
aware,  however,  how  little  she  wanted  it 
healed — all  at  once. 

For  the  potency  of  a  thought  it  is  per- 
haps even  better  that  it  should  not  be 
logically  displayed  to  the  intellect :  any- 
how, the  germ  of  all  this,  undeveloped 
into  the  definite  forms  I  have  given,  suf- 
ficed to  the  determining  of  Florimel's 
behavior.  I  do  not  mean  that  she  had 
more  than  the  natural  tendency  of  wo- 
mankind to  enjoy  the  emotions  of  which 
she  was  the  object ;  but  besides  the  one 
in  the  fable,  there  are  many  women  with 
a  tendency  to  mousing ;  and  the  idea  of 
deriving  pleasure  from  the  sufferings  of 
a  handsome  youth  was  not  cjuite  so  re- 
pulsive to  her  as  it  ought  to  have  been. 
At  the  same  time,  as  there  cannot  be 
many  cats  capable  of  understanding  the 
agonies  of  the  mice  within  reach  of  their 
waving  whiskers,  probably  many  cat- 
women  are  not  quite  so  cruel  as  they 
seem. 

''Can't  you  trust  me,  Malcolm?"  she 
said,  looking  in  his  eyes  very  sweetly  and 
bending  a  little  toward  him  :  "can't  you 
trust  me  ?" 

At  the  words  and  the  look  it  seemed 
as  if  his  frame  melted  to  ether.  He 
dropped  on  his  knees,  and,  his  heart 
half  stifled  in  the  confluence  of  the  tides 
of  love  and  misery,  sighed  out  between 


2o6 


MALCOLM. 


the  pulses  in  his  throat,  "There's  nae- 
thing  I  could  na  tell  ye  'at  ever  I  thoucht 
or  did  i'  my  life,  my  leddy  ;  but  it's  ither 
fowk,  my  leddy.  It's  like  to  burn  a  hole 
in'  my  hert,  an'  yet  I  daurna  open  my 
mou'." 

There  was  a  half- angelic,  half- dog- 
like entreaty  in  his  up-looking  hazel  eyes 
that  seemed  to  draw  hers  down  into  his  : 
she  must  put  a  stop  to  that.  "Get  up, 
Malcolm,"  she  said  kindly :  "  what  would 
my  father  or  Mrs.  Courthope  think  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken,  an'  I  'maist  dinna  care  : 
atween  ae  thing  an'  anither  I'm  near- 
han'  distrackit,"  replied  Malcolm,  rising 
slowly,  but  not  taking  his  eyes  from  her 
face.  "An'  there's  my  daddy,"  he  went 
on,  "  'maist  won  ower  to  the  enemy  ;  an' 
I  daurna  tell  even  him  what  for  I  canna 
bide  it.  Ye  haena  been  sayin'  onything 
till  him,  hiv  ye,  my  leddy?" 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  re- 
turned Florimel,  rather  guiltily,  for  she 
had  spoken  on  the  subject  to  Duncan. 
"  Saying  anything  to  your  grandfather  ? 
About  what?" 

"Aboot — aboot — her,  ye  ken,  my  led- 
dy." 

"What  her?"  asked  Florimel. 

"Her  'at —    The  leddy  o'  Gersefell." 

"And  why— ?  What  of  her?  Why, 
Malcolm,  what  can  have  possessed  you  ? 
You  seem  actually  to  dislike  her." 

"  I  canna  bide  her,"  said  Malcolm, 
with  the  calm  earnestness  of  one  who  is 
merely  stating  an  incontrovertible  fact, 
and  for  a  moment  his  eyes,  at  once  trou- 
bled and  solemn,  kept  looking  wistfully 
in  hers,  as  if  searching  for  a  comfort  too 
good  to  be  found,  then  slowly  sank  and 
sought  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

"And  why  ?" 

"  I  canna  tell  ye." 

She  supposed  it  an  unreasoned  an- 
tipathy. "But  that  is  very  wrong,"  she 
said,  almost  as  if  rebuking  a  child.  "You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  What ! 
dislike  your  own  mother?" 

"Dinna  say  the  word,  my  leddy," 
cried  Malcolm  in  a  tone  of  agony,  "or 
ye'U  gar  me  skirl  an'  rin  like  the  mad 
laird.  He's  no  a  hair  madder  nor  I  wad 
be  wi'  sic  a  mithcr." 

He  would  have  passed  her  to  leave 


the  room.  But  Lady  Florimel  could  not 
bear  defeat.  In  any  contest  she  must 
win  or  be  shamed  in  her  own  eyes,  and 
was  she  to  gain  absolutely  nothing  in 
such  a  passage  with  a  fisher-lad  ?  Was 
the  billow  of  her  persuasion  to  fall  back 
from  such  a  rock,  self-beaten  into  poor- 
est foam  ?  She  would,  she  must,  subdue 
him.  Perhaps  she  did  not  know  how 
much  the  sides  of  her  intent  were  prick- 
ed by  the  nettling  discovery  that  she  was 
not  the  cause  of  his  unhappiness. 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  me  so?" 
she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  injury. 

"I'll  gang  or  bide  as  you  wuU,  my 
leddy,"  answered  Malcolm  resignedly. 

"  Bide  then,"  she  returned.  "  I  haven't 
half  done  with  you  yet." 

"Ye  maunna  jist  tear  my  hert  oot,"  he 
rejoined  with  a  sad  half  smile  and  an- 
other of  his  dog-like  looks. 

"That's  what  you  would  do  to  your 
mother,"  said  Florimel  severely. 

"Say  nae  ill  o'  my  mither!"  cried 
Malcolm,  suddenly  changing  almost  to 
fierceness. 

"Why,  Malcolm,"  said  Florimel,  be- 
wildered, "what  ill  was  I  saying  of  her?" 

"  It's  naething  less  than  an  \nsult  to 
my  mither  to  ca'  yon  wuman  by  her 
name,"  he  replied  with  set  teeth. 

It  was  to  him  an  offence  against  the 
idea  of  motherhood  —  against  the  moth- 
er he  had  so  often  imagined  luminous 
against  the  dull  blank  of  memory — to 
call  such  a  woman  his  mother. 

"  She's  a  very  ladylike,  handsome  wo- 
man —  handsome  enough  to  be  your 
mother  even,  Mr.  Malcolm  Stewart." 

Florimel  could  not  have  dared  the 
words  but  for  the  distance  between  them, 
but  then  neither  would  she  have  said 
them  while  the  distance  was  greater. 
They  were  lost  on  Malcolm,  though,  for 
never  in  his  life  having  started  the  ques- 
tion whether  he  was  handsome  or  not, 
he  merely  supposed  her  making  game 
of  him,  and  drew  himself  together  in 
silence,  with  the  air  of  one  bracing  him- 
self to  hear  and  endure  the  worst. 

"  Even  if  she  should  not  be  your  moth- 
er," his  tormentor  resumed,  "to  show 
such  a  dislike  to  any  woman  is  nothing 
less  than  cruelty." 


MALCOLM. 


207 


"She  maun  pruv'  't,"  murmured  Mal- 
colm, not  the  less  emphatically  that  the 
words  were  but  just  audible. 

"Of  course  she  will  do  that:  she  has 
abundance  of  proof.  She  gave  me  a 
whole  hour  of  proof." 

"Lang's  no  Strang,"  returned  Mal- 
colm: "there's  comfort  i'  that.  Gang 
on,  my  leddy." 

"  Poor  woman  !  it  was  hard  enough  to 
lose  her  son,  but  to  find  him  again  such 
as  you  seem  likely  to  turn  out,  /  should 
think  ten  times  worse." 

"Nae  doobt,  nae  doobt.  But  there's 
ae  thmg  waur." 

"What  is  that?" 

"To  come  upon  a  mither  'at — " 

He  stopped  abruptly :  his  eyes  went 
wandering  about  the  room,  and  the  mus- 
cles of  his  face  worked  convulsively. 

Florimel  saw  that  she  had  been  driv- 
ing against  a  stone  wall.  She  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  resumed.  "Anyhow, 
if  she  is  your  mother,"  she  said,  "noth- 
ing you  can  do  will  alter  it." 

"She  maun  pruv'  't,"  was  all  Mal- 
colm's dogged  reply. 

"Just  so  ;  and  if  she  can't,"  said  Flori- 
mel, "you'll  be  no  worse  than  you  were 
before — and  no  better,"  she  added  with 
a  sigh. 

Malcolm  lifted  his  questioning  to  her 
searching  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  see,"  she  went  on  very 
softly,  and  lowering  her  look,  from  the 
half-conscious  shame  of  half-unconscious 
falseness,  "  I  can't  be  all  my  life  here  at 
Lossie  ?  We  shall  have  to  say  good-bye 
to  each  other  —  never  to  meet  again, 
most  likely.  But  if  you  should  turn  out 
to  be  of  good  family,  you  know — " 

Florimel  saw  neither  the  paling  of  his 
brown  cheek  nor  the  great  surge  of  red 
that  followed,  but,  glancing  up  to  spy 
the  effect  of  her  argument,  did  see  the 
lightning  that  broke  from  the  darkened 
hazel  of  his  eyes,  and  again  cast  down 
her  own.  "  — Then  there  might  be  some 
chance,"  she  went  on,  "of  our  meeting 
somewhere  —  in  London,  or  perhaps  in 
Edinburgh,  and  I  could  ask  you  to  my 
house — after  I  was  married,  you  know." 

Heaven  and  earth  seemed  to  close 
■with  a  snap  around  his  brain.     The  next 


moment  they  had  receded  an  immeas- 
urable distance,  and  in  limitless  wastes 
of  exhausted  being  he  stood  alone.  What 
time  had  passed  when  he  came  to  him- 
self he  had  not  an  idea :  it  might  have 
been  hours  for  anything  his  conscious- 
ness was  able  to  tell  him.  But  although 
he  recalled  nothing  of  what  she  had  been 
urging,  he  grew  aware  that  Lady  Flori- 
mel's  voice,  which  was  now  in  his  ears, 
had  been  sounding  in  them  all  the  lime. 
He  was  standing  before  her  like  a  mar- 
ble statue  with  a  dumb  thrill  in  its  help- 
less heart  of  stone.  He  must  end  this. 
Parting  was  bad  enough,  but  an  endless 
parting  was  unendurable.  To  know  that 
measureless  impassable  leagues  lay  be- 
tween them,  and  yet  to  be  for  ever  in  the 
shroud  of  a  cold  leavetaking !  To  look 
in  her  eyes,  and  know  that  she  was  not 
there  !  A  parting  that  never  broke  the 
bodily  presence — that  was  the  form  of 
agony  which  the  infinite  moment  as- 
sumed. As  to  the  possibility  she  would 
bribe  him  with,  was  it  not  even  the  prom- 
ise of  a  glimpse  of  Abraham's  bosom 
from  the  heart  of  hell  ?  With  such  an 
effort  as  breaks  the  bonds  of  a  night- 
mare dream,  he  turned  from  her,  and, 
heedless  of  her  recall,  went  slowly,  stead- 
ily out  of  the  house. 

While  she  was  talking  his  eyes  had 
been  resting  with  glassy  gaze  upon  the 
far-off  waters :  the  moment  he  stepped 
into  the  open  air  and  felt  the  wind  on 
his  face  he  knew  that  their  turmoil  was 
the  travailing  of  sympathy,  and  that  the 
ocean  had  been  drawing  him  all  the 
time.  He  walked  straight  to  his  little 
boat,  lying  dead  on  the  sands  of  the  har- 
bor, launched  it  alive  on  the  smooth  wa- 
ter within  the  piers,  rove  his  halliard, 
stepped  his  mast,  hoisted  a  few  inches 
of  sail,  pulled  beyond  the  sheltering  sea- 
walls, and  was  tossing  amidst  the  torn 
waters  whose  jagged  edges  were  twisted 
in  the  loose-flying  threads  of  the  north- 
ern gale.  A  moment  more  and  he  was 
sitting  on  the  windward  gunwale  of  his 
spoon  of  a  boat,  with  the  tiller  in  one 
hand  and  the  sheet  in  the  other,  as  she 
danced  like  a  cork  over  the  broken  tops 
of  the  waves.  For  help  in  his  sore  need 
instinct  had  led  him  to  danger. 


2o8 


MALCOLM. 


Halfway  to  the  point  of  Scaumose  he 
came  round  on  the  other  tack  and  stood 
for  the  Death  Head. 

Glancing  from  the  wallowing  floor  be- 
neath him,  and  the  one  wing  that  bore 
him  skimming  over  its  million  deaths, 
away  to  the  House  of  Lossie,  where  it 
stood  steady  in  its  woods,  he  distin- 
guished the  very  window  whence,  hard- 
ly an  hour  ago,  from  the  centre  of  the 
calm  companionship  of  books,  he  had 
gazed  out  upon  the  wind-swept  waste  as 
upon  a  dream. 

"How  strange,"  he  thought,  "to  find 
myself  now  in  the  midst  of  what  I  then 
but  saw !  This  reeling  ocean  was  but 
a  picture  to  me  then — a  picture  framed 
in  the  window :  it  is  now  alive  and  I 
toss  like  a  toy  on  its  wild  commotion. 
Then  I  but  saw  froni  afar  the  flashing  of 
the  white  out  of  the  blue  water,  and  the 
blue  sky  overhead,  which  no  winds  can 
rend  into  pallid  pains :  now  I  have  to 
keep  eye  and  hand  together  in  one  con- 
sent to  shun  death.  I  meet  wind  and 
wave  on  their  own  terms,  and  humor 
the  one  into  an  evasion  of  the  other. 
The  wind  that  then  revealed  itself  only 
in  white  blots  and  streaks  now  lashes  my 
hair  into  my  eyes,  and  only  the  lift  of  my 
bows  is  betwixt  me  and  the  throat  that 
swallows  the  whales  and  the  krakens. 

"Will  it  be  so  with  death  ?  It  looks 
strange  and  far  off  now,  but  it  draws 
nigh  noiselessly,  and  one  day  I  shall  meet 
it  face  to  face  in  the  grapple :  shall  1  re- 
joice in  that  wrestle  as  I  rejoice  in  this  ? 
Will  not  my  heart  grow  sick  within  me  ? 
Shall  I  not  be  faint  and  fearful?  And 
yet  I  could  almost  wish  it  were  at  hand! 

"I  wonder  how  death  and  this  wan 
water  here  look  to  God?  To  Him  is  it 
like  a  dream,  a  picture  ?  Water  cannot 
wet  Him,  death  cannot  touch  Him.  Yet 
Jesus  could  have  let  the  water  wet  Him, 
and  He  granted  power  to  death  when 
He  bowed  His  head  and  gave  up  the 
ghost.  God  knows  how  things  look  to 
us  both  far  off  and  near :  He  also  can  see 
them  so  when  He  pleases.  What  they 
look  to  Him  is  what  they  are :  we  can- 
not see  them  so,  but  we  see  them  as  He 
meant  us  to  see  them — therefore  truly, 
according  to  the  measure  of  the  created. 


Made  in  the  image  of  God,  we  see  things 
in  the  image  of  His  sight." 

Thoughts  like  these,  only  in  yet  cruder 
forms,  swept  through  the  mind  of  Mal- 
colm as  he  tossed  on  that  autumn  sea. 
But  what  we  call  crude  forms  are  often 
in  reality  germinal  forms ;  and  one  or 
other  of  these  flowered  at  once  into  the 
practical  conclusion  that  God  must  know 
all  his  trouble  and  would  work  for  him 
a  worthy  peace.  Ere  he  turned  again 
toward  the  harbor  he  had  reascended  the 
cloud-haunted  Pisgah  whence  the  words 
of  Lady  Florimel  had  hurled  him. 


CHAPTER  L. 
LIZZY  FINDLAY. 

Leaving  his  boat  again  on  the  dry 
sand  that  sloped  steep  into  the  harbor, 
Malcolm  took  his  way  homeward  along 
the  shore.  Presently  he  spied,  at  some 
little  distance  in  front  of  him,  a  woman 
sitting  on  the  sand,  with  her  head  bowed 
upon  her  knees.  She  had  no  shawl, 
though  the  wind  was  cold  and  strong, 
blowing  her  hair  about  wildly.  Her  at- 
titude and  whole  appearance  were  the 
very  picture  of  misery.  He  drew  near, 
and  recognized  her.  "What  on  earth's 
gane  wrang  wi'  ye,  Lizzy?"  he  asked. 

"Ow,  naething,"  she  murmured  with- 
out lifting  her  head.  The  brief  reply 
was  broken  by  a  sob. 

"That  canna  be,"  persisted  Malcolm, 
trouble  of  whose  own  had  never  yet 
rendered  him  indifferent  to  that  of  an- 
other. "Is  't  onything  'at  a  body  cud 
Stan'  by  ye  in  ?" 

Another  sob  was  the  only  answer. 

"I'm  in  a  peck  o'  troubles  mysel'," 
said  Malcolm  :  "  I  wad  fain  help  a  body 
gien  I  cud." 

"Naebody  can  help  me,"  returned  the 
girl  with  an  agonized  burst,  as  if  the 
words  were  driven  from  her  by  a  con- 
vulsion of  her  inner  world,  and  there- 
with she  gave  way,  weeping  and  sob- 
bing aloud.  "I  doobt  I'll  hae  to  droon 
mysel',"  she  added  with  a  wail,  as  he 
stood  In  compassionate  silence  until  the 
gust  should  blow  over ;  and  as  she  said 
it  she  lifted  a  face  tear-stained  and  all 


MALCOLM. 


209 


white  save  where  five  fingers  had  brand- 
ed their  shapes  in  red.  Her  eyes  scarce- 
ly encountered  his  :  again  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  rocked  herself  to 
and  fro,  moaning  in  fresh  agony. 

"Yer  mither's  been  sair  upo'  ye,  I 
doobt,"  he  said.  "But  it'll  sune  blaw 
ower.  She  cuils  as  fcst  's  she  heats." 
As  he  spoke  he  sat  himself  down  on  the 
sand  beside  her. 

But  Lizzy  started  to  her  feet,  crying, 
"Dinna  come  near  me,  Ma'colm.  I'm 
no  fit  for  honest  man  to  come  nigh  me. 
Stan'  awa' !   I  hae  the  plague." 

She  laughed,  but  it  was  a  pitiful  laugh, 
and  she  looked  wildly  about,  as  if  for 
some  place  to  run  to. 

"  I  wad  na  be  sorry  to  tak  it  mysel', 
Lizzy.  At  ony  rate,  I'm  ower  auld  a 
freen'  to  be  driven  frae  ye  that  gait," 
said  Malcolm,  who  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  on  the  border  of 
the  solitary  sea,  with  the  waves  barking 
at  her  all  the  cold  winterly  gloaming. 
Who  could  tell  what  she  might  do  after 
the  dark  came  down  ? 

He  rose,  and  would  have  taken  her 
hand  to  draw  it  from  her  face,  but  she 
turned  her  back  quickly,  saying  in  a 
hard,  forced  voice,  "A  man  canna  help 
a  wuman,  'cep  it  be  till  her  grave." 
Then  turning  suddenly  she  laid  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders  and  cried,  "  For 
the  love  o'  God,  Ma'colm,  lea'  me  this 
moment !  Gien  I  cud  tell  ony  man  what 
ailed  me,  I  wad  tell  you;  but  I  canna, 
I  canna !     Rin,  laddie — rin'  an'  lea'  me." 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  her  anguish- 
ed entreaty  and  agonized  look.  Sore  at 
heart  and  puzzled  in  brain,  Malcolm 
yielding  turned  from  her,  and  with  eyes 
on  the  ground  thoughtfully  pursued  his 
slow  walk  toward  the  Seaton. 

At  the  corner  of  the  first  house  in  the 
village  stood  three  women,  whom  he 
saluted  as  he  passed.  The  tone  of  their 
reply  struck  him  a  little,  but  not  having 
observed  how  they  watched  him  as  he 
approached,  he  presently  forgot  it.  The 
moment  his  back  was  turned  to  them, 
they  turned  to  each  other  and  inter- 
changed looks. 

"Fine  feathers  mak  fine  birds,"  said 
one  of  them. 
14 


"Ay,  but  he  luiks  booed  doon,"  said 
another. 

"  An' weel  he  may.  What'll  his  leddy- 
mither  say  to  sic  a  ploy  ?  She'll  no  saw- 
vor  bein'  made  a  granny  o'  efter  sic  a 
fashion  's  yon,"  said  the  third. 

"  'Deed,  lass,  there's  few  oucht  to  think 
less  o'  't,"  returned  the  first. 

Although  they  took  little  pains  to  low- 
er their  voices,  Malcolm  was  far  too 
much  preoccupied  to  hear  what  they 
said.  Perceiving  plainly  enough  that 
the  girl's  trouble  was  much  greater  than 
a  passing  quarrel  with  her  mother  would 
account  for,  and  knowing  that  any  inter- 
cession on  his  part  would  only  rouse  to 
loftier  flames  the  coal-pits  of  maternal 
wrath,  he  resolved  at  length  to  take 
counsel  with  Blue  Peter  and  his  wife, 
and  therefore,  passing  the  sea-gate,  con- 
tinued his  walk  along  the  shore  and  up 
the  red  path  to  the  village  of  Scaurnose. 

He  found  them  sitting  at  their  after- 
noon meal  of  tea  and  oatcake.  A  peat 
fire  smouldered  hot  upon  the  hearth  ;  a 
large  kettle  hung  from  a  chain  over  it 
— fountain  of  plenty  whence  the  great 
china  teapot,  splendid  in  red  flowers  and 
green  leaves,  had  just  been  filled  ;  the 
mantelpiece  was  crowded  with  the  gayest 
of  crockery,  including  the  never-absent 
half- shaved  poodles  and  the  rarer  Goth- 
ic castle,  from  the  topmost  story  of  whose 
keep  bloomed  a  few  late  autumn  flowers. 
Phemy  too  was  at  the  table :  she  rose 
as  if  to  leave  the  room,  but  apparently 
changed  her  mind,  for  she  sat  down 
again  instantly. 

"Man,  ye're  unco  braw  the  day — i' 
yer  kilt  an'  tartan  hose !"  remarked 
Mair  as  he  welcomed  him. 

"  I  pat  them  on  to  please  my  daddy 
an'  the  markis,"  said  Malcolm,  with  a 
half-shamefaced  laugh. 

"Are  na  ye  some  cauld  aboot  the 
k-nees  ?"  asked  the  guidwife. 

"  Nae  that  cauld  I  ken  'at  they're 
there,  but  I'll  sune  be  used  till  't." 

"Weel,  sit  ye  doon  an'  tak  a  cup  o' 
tay  wi'  's." 

"  I  haena  muckle  time  to  spare,"  said 
Malcolm,  "but  I'll  tak  a  cup  o'  tay  wi' 
ye.  Gien  't  warna  for  wee  bit  luggies 
[small  ears),  I  wad  fain  spcir  yer  advice 


MALCOLM. 


aboot  ane  'at  wants  a  wuman-freen',  I'm 
thinkin'." 

Phemy,  who  had  been  regarding  him 
with  compressed  hps  and  suspended  op- 
erations, deposited  her  bread  and  but- 
ter on  the  table  and  shpped  from  her 
chair. 

"  Whaur  are  ye  gauin',  Phemy  ?"  said 
her  mother. 

"Takin'  awa'  my  lugs,"  returned 
Phemy. 

"Ye  cratur!"  exclaimed  Malcolm; 
"  ye're  ower  wise.  Wha  wad  hae  thoucht 
ye  sae  gleg  at  the  uptak  ?" 

"Whan  fowk  winna  lippen  to  me — " 
said  Phemy,  and  ceased. 

"What  can  ye  expect,"  returned  Mal- 
colm, while  father  and  mother  listened 
with  amused  faces,  "  whan  ye  winna  lip- 
pen  to  fowk  ?  Phemy.  whaur's  the  mad 
laird?" 

A  light  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks,  but 
whether  from  embarrassment  or  anger 
could  not  be  told  from  her  reply.  "  I  ken 
nane  o'  that  name,"  she  said. 

"Whaur's  the  laird  o'  Kirkbyres, 
than  ?" 

"Whaur  ye  s'  never  lay  han'  upo" 
'im,"  returned  the  child,  her  cheeks  now 
rosy  red  and  her  eyes  flashing. 

"Me  lay  han'  upo'  'im  !"  cried  Mal- 
■  Golm,  surprised  at  her  behavior. 

"Gien  't  hadna  been  for  you  naebody 
•wad  hae  fun'  oot  the  w'y  intil  the  cave," 
-she  rejoined,  her  gray  eyes,  blue  with 
fthe  fire  of  anger,  looking  straight  into 
his. 

"  Phemy  !  Phemy !"  said  her  mother, 
"for  shame!" 

"There's^ae  shame  intill  't,"  protest- 
ed-the  child  indignantly. 


"But  there  is  shame  intill  't,"  said 
Malcolm  quietly,  "for  ye  wrang  an  hon- 
est man." 

"Weel,  ye  canna  deny,"  persisted 
Phemy,  in  mood  to  brave  the  Evil  One 
himself,  "  'at  ye  was  ower  at  Kirkbyres 
on  ane  o'  the  markis's  mears,  an'  heild 
a  lang  confab  wi'  the  laird's  mither." 

"I  gaed  upo'  my  maister's  eeran'," 
answered  Malcolm. 

"  Ow,  ay  !  I  daur  say !  But  wha  kens, 
wi'  sic  a  mither  ?" 

She  burst  out  crying  and  ran  into  the 
street.  Malcolm  understood  it  now. 
"She's  like  a'  the  lave  (rest)^'  he  said 
sadly,  turning  to  her  mother. 

"  I'm  jist  affrontit  wi'  the  bairn,"  she 
replied,  with  manifest  annoyance  in  her 
flushed  face. 

"She's  true  to  him,"  said  Malcolm, 
"gien  she  binna  fair  to  me.  Sayna  a 
word  to  the  lassie.  She'll  ken  me  bet- 
ter er  lang.     An'  noo  for  my  story." 

Mrs.  Mair  said  nothing  while  he  told 
how  he  had  come  upon  Lizzy,  the  state 
she  was  in,  and  what  had  passed  be- 
tween them  ;  but  he  had  scarcely  finish- 
ed when  she  rose,  leaving  a  cup  of  tea 
untasted,  and  took  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
from  a  nail  in  the  back  of  the  door.  Her 
husband  rose  also.  "I'll  jist  gang  as 
far's  the  Boar's  Craig  wi'  ye  mysel', 
Annie,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  ye'U  fin'  the  puir  lassie 
whaur  I  left  her,"  remarked  Malcolm. 
"  I  doobt  she  daured  na  gang  hame." 

That  night  it  was  all  over  the  town 
that  Lizzy  Findlay  was  in  a  woman's 
worst  trouble,  and  that  Malcolm  was  the 
cause  of  it. 


:bj^:h.t   x:. 


CHAPTER    LI. 
THE    laird's    burrow. 

ANNIE  MAIR  had  a  brother,  a  car- 
penter, who,  following  her  to  Scaur- 
nose,  had  there  rented  a  small  building 
next  door  to  her  cottage,  and  made  of 
it  a  workshop.  It  had  a  rude  loft,  one 
end  of  which  was  loosely  floored,  while 
the  remaining  part  showed  the  couples 
through  the  bare  joists,  except  where 
some  planks  of  oak  and  mahogany,  with 
an  old  door,  a  boat's  rudder  and  other 
things  that  might  come  in  handy,  were 
laid  across  them  in  store.  There  also 
during  the  winter  hung  the  cumulus- 
clouds  of  Blue  Peter's  herring-nets,  for 
his  cottage,  having  a  garret  above,  did 
not  afford  the  customary  place  for  them 
in  the  roof. 

When  the  cave  proved  to  be  no  longer 
a  secret  from  the  laird's  enemies,  Phemy, 
knowing  that  her  father's  garret  could 
never  afford  him  a  sufficing  sense  of  se- 
curity, turned  the  matter  over  in  her  ac- 
tive little  brain  until  pondering  produced 
plans,  and  she  betook  herself  to  her  un- 
cle, with  whom  she  was  a  great  favor- 
ite. Him  she  found  no  difficulty  in  per- 
suading to  grant  the  hunted  man  a  refuge 
in  the  loft.  In  a  few  days  he  had  put  up 
a  partition  between  the  part  which  was 
floored  and  that  which  was  open,  and  so 
made  for  him  a  little  room,  accessible 
from  the  shop  by  a  ladder  and  a  trap- 
door. He  had  just  taken  down  an  old 
window-frame  to  glaze  for  it,  when  the 
laird,  coming  in  and  seeing  what  he  was 
about,  scrambled  up  the  ladder,  and  a 
moment  after  all  but  tumbled  down  again 
in  his  eagerness  to  put  a  stop  to  it :  the 
window  was  in  the  gable,  looking  to  the 
south,  and  he  would  not  have  it  glazed. 

In  blessed  compensation  for  much  of 
the  miser)'  of  his  lot  the  laird  was  gifted 
with  an  inborn  delicate  delight  in  Nature 
and  her  ministrations  such  as  few  poets 
even  possess ;  and  this  faculty  was  sup- 


plemented with  a  physical  hardiness 
which,  in  association  with  his  weakness 
and  liability  to  certain  appalling  attacks, 
was  truly  astonishing.  Though  a  rough 
hand  might  cause  him  exquisite  pain,  he 
could  sleep  soundly  on  the  hardest  floor; 
a  hot  room  would  induce  a  fit,  but  he 
would  lie  under  an  open  window  in  the 
sharpest  night  without  injury;  a  rude 
word  would  make  him  droop  like  a  flow- 
er in  frost,  but  he  might  go  all  day  wet 
to  the  skin  without  taking  cold.  To  all 
kinds  of  what  are  called  hardships  he  had 
readily  become  inured,  without  which  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  his  love 
of  Nature  to  receive  such  a  full  develop- 
ment. For  hence  he  grew  capable  of  com- 
munion with  her  in  all  her  moods,  un- 
disabled  either  by  the  deadening  effects 
of  present  or  the  aversion  consequent  on 
past  suffering.  All  the  range  of  earth's 
shows,  from  the  grandeurs  of  sunrise  or 
thunderstorm  down  to  the  soft  unfolding 
of  a  daisy  or  the  babbling  birth  of  a 
spring,  was  to  him  an  open  book.  It  is 
true,  the  delight  of  these  things  was  con- 
stantly mingled  with — not  unfrequently 
broken,  indeed,  by — the  troublous  ques- 
tion of  his  origin,  but  it  was  only  on  oc- 
casions of  jarring  contact  with  his  fellows 
that  it  was  accompanied  by  such  agonies 
as  my  story  has  represented.  Sometimes 
he  would  sit  on  a  rock  murmuring  the 
words  over  and  over,  and  dabbling  his 
bare  feet,  small  and  delicately  formed,  in 
the  translucent  green  of  a  tide-abandon- 
ed pool.  But  oftener  in  a  soft  dusky 
wind  he  might  have  been  heard  uttering 
them  gently  and  coaxingly,  as  if  he 
would  wile  from  the  evening  zephyr  the  ^ 
secret  of  his  birth  ;  which  surely  Mother 
Nature  must  know.  The  confinement 
of  such  a  man  would  have  been  in  the 
highest  degree  cruel,  and  must  speedily 
have  ended  in  death.  Even  Malcolm  did 
not  know  how  absolute  was  the  laird's 
need,  not  simply  of  air  and  freedom,  but 

211 


2T2 


MALCOLM. 


of  all  things  accompanying  the  enjoy- 
ment of  them. 

There  was  nothing,  then,  of  insanity 
in  his  preference  of  a  windovvless  bed- 
room :  it  was  that  airs  and  odors,  birds 
and  sunlight,  the  sound  of  flapping  wing, 
of  breaking  wave  and  quivering  throat, 
might  be  free  to  enter.  Cool  clean  air 
he  must  breathe  or  die :  with  that,  the 
partial  confinement  to  which  he  was  sub- 
jected was  not  unendurable ;  besides, 
the  welcome  rain  would  then  visit  him 
sometimes,  alighting  from  the  slant  wing 
of  the  flying  blast,  while  the  sun  would 
pour  in  his  rays  full  and  mighty  and 
generous,  unsifted  by  the  presumptuous 
glass — green  and  gray  and  crowded  with 
distorting  lines — and  the  sharp  flap  of 
pigeon's  wing  would  be  mimic  thunder 
to  the  flash  which  leapt  from  its  white- 
ness as  it  shot  by. 

He  not  only  loved  but  understood  all 
the  creatures,  divining,  by  an  operation 
in  which  neither  the  sympathy  nor  the 
watchfulness  was  the  less  perfect  that 
both  were  but  half  conscious,  the  emo- 
tions and  desires  informing  their  inarticu- 
late language.  Many  of  them  seemed  to 
know  him  in  return — either  recognizing 
his  person  and  from  experience  dedu- 
cing safety,  or  reading  his  countenance 
sufficiently  to  perceive  that  his  interest 
prognosticated  no  injury.  The  maternal 
bird  would  keep  her  seat  in  her  nursery 
and  give  back  his  gaze  ;  the  rabbit  peep- 
ing from  his  burrow  would  not  even  draw 
in  his  head  at  his  approach ;  the  rooks 
about  Scaurnose  never  took  to  their  wings 
until  he  was  within  a  yard  or  two  of 
them :  the  laird,  in  his  half-acted  utter- 
ance, indicated  that  they  took  him  for  a 
scarecrow,  and  t/ierefo7'e  were  not  afraid 
of  him.  Even  Mrs.  Catanach's  cur  had 
never  offered  him  a  bite  in  return  for  a 
caress.  He  could  make  a  bird's  nest 
of  any  sort  common  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, so  as  to  deceive  the  most  cunning 
of  the  nest-harrying  youths  of  the  parish. 

Hardly  was  he  an  hour  in  his  new 
abode  ere  the  sparrows  and  robins  began 
to  visit  him.  Even  strange  birds  of  pas- 
sage flying  in  at  his  hospitable  window 
would  espy  him  unscared,  and  some- 
times partake  of  the  food  he  had  always 


at  hand  to  offer  them.  He  relied,  in- 
deed, for  the  pleasures  of  social  inter- 
course with  the  animal  world  on  stray 
visits  alone  :  he  had  no  pets — dog  nor 
cat  nor  bird  —  for  his  wandering  and 
danger-haunted  life  did  not  allow  such 
companionship. 

He  insisted  on  occupying  his  new 
quarters  at  once.  In  vain  Phemy  and 
her  uncle  showed  reason  against  it.  He 
did  not  want  a  bed  :  he  much  preferred 
a  heap  of  spales — that  is,  wood-shavings. 
Indeed,  he  would  not  have  a  bed,  and 
whatever  he  did  want  he  would  get  for 
himself.  Having  by  word  and  gesture 
made  this  much  plain,  he  suddenly  dart- 
ed up  the  ladder,  threw  down  the  trap- 
door, and,  lo  !  hke  a  hermit-crab  he  had 
taken  possession.  Wisely  they  left  him 
alone. 

For  a  full  fortnight  he  allowed  neither 
to  enter  the  little  chamber.  As  often  as 
they  called  him  he  answered  cheerfully, 
but  never  showed  himself  except  when 
Phemy  brought  him  food,  which,  at  his 
urgent  request,  was  only  once  in  the 
twenty-four  hours  —  after  nightfall,  the 
last  thing  before  she  went  to  bed  :  then 
he  would  slide  down  the  ladder,  take 
what  she  had  brought  him  and  hurr)' 
up  again.  Phemy  was  perplexed,  and  at 
last  a  good  deal  distressed,  for  he  had 
always  been  glad  of  her  company  before. 

At  length  one  day,  hearing  her  voice 
in  the  shop,  and  having  peeped  through 
a  hole  in  the  floor  to  see  that  no  stranger 
was  present,  he  invited  her  to  go  up,  and 
lifted  the  trap-door.  "Come,  come,"  he 
said  hurriedly  when  her  head  appeared 
and  came  no  farther. 

He  stood  holding  the  trap-door,  eager 
to  close  it  again  as  soon  as  she  should 
step  clear  of  it,  and  surprise  was  retard- 
ing her  ascent. 

Before  hearing  his  mind  the  carpenter 
had  already  made  for  him,  by  way  of 
bedstead,  a  simple  frame  of  wood,  cross- 
ed with  laths  in  the  form  of  lattice- work  : 
this  the  laird  had  taken  and  set  up  on  its 
side  opposite  the  window,  about  two  feet 
from  it,  so  that,  with  abundant  passage 
for  air,  it  served  as  a  screen.  Fixing  it 
firmly  to  the  floor,  he  had  placed  on  the 
top  of  it  a  large  pot  of  the  favorite  cot- 


MALCOLM. 


213 


tage-plant  there  called  humility,  and 
trained  its  long  pendent  runners  over  it. 
On  the  floor  between  it  and  the  window 
he  had  ranged  a  row  of  flower-pots — one 
of  them  with  an  ivy-plant,  which  also  he 
had  begun  to  train  against  the  trellis — 
and  already  the  humility  and  the  ivy 
had  begun  to  intermingle. 

At  one  side  of  the  room,  where  the 
sloping  roof  met  the  floor,  was  his  bed 
of  fresh  pine  shavings,  amongst  which, 
their  resinous,  half-aromatic  odor  appar- 
ently not  sweet  enough  to  content  him, 
he  had  scattered  a  quantity  of  dried  rose- 
leaves.  A  thick  tartan  plaid  for  sole  cov- 
ering lay  upon  the  heap. 

"I  wad  hae  likit  hay  better,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  this  lair  rather  than  couch, 
"but  it's  some  ill  to  get,  an'  the  spales 
are  at  han',  an'  they  smell  unco  clean." 

At  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  lay  a 
correspondent  heap,  differing  not  a  little, 
however,  in  appearance  and  suggestion. 
As  far  as  visible  form  and  material  could 
make  it  one  it  was  a  grave — rather  a 
short  one,  but  abundantly  long  for  the 
laird.  It  was  in  reality  a  heap  of  mould, 
about  a  foot  and  a  half  high,  covered 
with  the  most  delicate  grass  and  be- 
spangled with  daisies. 

"  Laird,"  said  Phemy  half  reproach- 
fully as  she  stood  gazing  at  the  marvel, 
"ye  hae  been  oot  at  nicht!" 

"Ay — a'  nicht  whiles,  whan  naebody 
was  aboot  'cep'  the  win'"  —  he  pro- 
nounced the  word  with  a  long-drawn, 
imitative  sough — ^"an'  the  cloods  an'  the 
splash  o'  the  watter," 

Pining  under  the  closer  imprisonment 
in  his  garret  which  the  discovery  of  his 
subterranean  refuge  had  brought  upon 
him,  the  laird  would  often  have  made 
his  escape  at  night  but  for  the  fear  of 
disturbing  the  Mairs  ;  and  now  that  there 
was  no  one  to  disturb,  the  temptation  to 
spend  his  nights  in  the  open  air  was  the 
more  irresistible  that  he  had  conceived 
the  notion  of  enticing  Nature  herself 
into  his  very  chamber.  Abroad,  then, 
he  had  gone  as  soon  as  the  first  mid- 
night closed  around  his  new  dwelling, 
and  in  the  fields  had  with  careful  dis- 
crimination begun  to  collect  the  mould 
for  his  mound,  a  handful  here  and  a 


handful  there.  This  took  him  several 
nights,  and  when  it  was  finished  he  was 
yet  more  choice  in  his  selection  of  turf, 
taking  it  from  the  natural  grass  growing 
along  the  roads  and  on  the  earthen 
dykes  or  walls,  the  outer  sides  of  which 
feed  the  portionless  cows  of  that  country. 
Searching  for  miles  in  the  moonlight,  he 
had,  with  eye  and  hand,  chosen  out 
patches  of  this  grass,  the  shortest  and 
thickest  he  could  find,  and  with  a  pock- 
et-knife, often  in  pieces  of  only  a  few 
inches,  removed  the  best  of  it  and  car- 
ried it  home,  to  be  fitted  on  the  heap, 
and  with  every  ministration  and  bland- 
ishment enticed  to  flourish.  He  pressed 
it  down  with  soft  firm  hands,  and  be- 
showered  it  with  water  first  warmed  a 
little  in  his  mouth ;  when  the  air  was 
soft  he  guided  the  wind  to  blow  upon  it ; 
and  as  the  sun  could  not  reach  it  where 
it  lay,  he  gathered  a  marvelous  heap  of 
all  the  bright  sherds  he  could  find — of 
crockery  and  glass  and  mirror — so  ar- 
ranging them  in  the  window  that  each 
threw  its  tiny  reflex  upon  the  turf.  With 
this  last  contrivance  Phemy  was  special- 
ly delighted,  and  the  laird,  happy  as  a 
child  in  beholding  her  delight,  threw 
himself  in  an  ecstasy  on  the  mound  and 
clasped  it  in  his  arms.  I  can  hardly 
doubt  that  he  regarded  it  as  representing 
his  own  grave,  to  which  in  his  happier 
moods  he  certainly  looked  forward  as  a 
place  of  final  and  impregnable  refuge. 

As  he  lay  thus,  foreshadowing  his 
burial  —  or  rather  his  resurrection  —  a 
young  canary  which  had  flown  from  one 
of  the  cottages  flitted  in  with  a  golden 
shiver  and  flash,  and  alighted  on  his 
head.  He  took  it  gently  in  his  hand 
and  committed  it  to  Phemy  to  carry 
home,  with  many  injunctions  against 
disclosing  how  it  had  been  captured. 

His  lonely  days  were  spent  in  sleep, 
in  tending  his  plants  or  in  contriving 
defences,  but  in  all  weathers  he  wander- 
ed out  at  midnight,  and  roamed  or  rested 
among  fields  or  rocks  till  the  first  signs 
of  the  breaking  day,  when  he  hurried 
like  a  wild  creature  to  his  den. 

Before  long  he  had  contrived  an  in- 
genious trap,  or  man-spider  web,  for  the 
catching  of  any  human  insect  that  might 


214 


MALCOLM. 


seek  entrance  at  his  window:  the  mo- 
ment the  invading  body  should  reach  a 
certain  point  a  number  of  hnes  would 
drop  all  about  him,  making  his  way 
through  which  he  would  straightway  be 
caught  by  the  barbs  of  countless  fish- 
hooks ;  the  whole  strong  enough  at  least 
to  detain  him  until  its  inventor  should 
have  opened  the  trap-door  and  fled. 


CHAPTER   Lll. 
CREAM    OR    SCUM? 

Of  the  new  evil  report  abroad  con- 
cerning him  nothing  had  as  yet  reached 
Malcolm.  He  read  and  pondered,  and 
wrestled  with  difficulties  of  every  kind  ; 
saw  only  a  little  of  Lady  Florimel,  who, 
he  thought,  avoided  him ;  saw  less  of 
the  marquis  ;  and,  as  the  evenings  grew 
longer,  spent  still  larger  portions  of  them 
with  Duncan — now  and  then  reading  to 
him,  but  oftener  listening  to  his  music  or 
taking  a  lesson  in  the  piper's  art.  He 
went  seldom  into  the  Seaton,  for  the 
faces  there  were  changed  toward  him. 
Attributing  this  to  the  reports  concern- 
ing his  parentage,  and  not  seeing  why  he 
should  receive  such  treatment  because  of 
them,  hateful  though  they  might  well  be 
to  himself,  he  began  to  feel  some  bitter- 
ness toward  his  early  world,  and  would 
now  and  then  repeat  to  himself  a  misan- 
thropical thing  he  had  read,  fancying  he 
\  too  had  come  to  that  conclusion.  But 
there  was  not  much  danger  of  such  a 
mood  growing  habitual  with  one  who 
knew  Duncan  MacPhail,  Blue  Peter  and 
the  schoolmaster,  not  to  mention  Miss 
Horn.  To  know  one  person  who  is  pos- 
itively to  be  trusted  will  do  more  for  a 
man's  moral  nature — yes,  for  his  spiritual 
nature — than  all  the  sermons  he  has  ever 
heard  or  ever  can  hear. 

One  evening  Malcolm  thought  he 
would  pay  Joseph  a  visit,  but  when  he 
reached  Scaurnose  he  found  it  nearly 
deserted :  he  had  forgotten  that  this  was 
one  of  the  nights  of  meeting  in  the  Bail- 
lies'  Barn.  Phemy,  indeed,  had  not  gone 
with  her  father  and  mother,  but  she  was 
spending  the  evening  with  the  mad  laird. 
Lifting  the  latch,  and  seeing  no  one  in 


the  house,  he  was  on  the  point  of  with- 
drawing when  he  caught  sight  of  an  eye 
peeping  through  an  inch  opening  of  the 
door  of  the  bed-closet,  which  the  same 
moment  was  hurriedly  closed.  He  call- 
ed, but  received  no  reply,  and  left  the 
cottage  wondering.  He  had  not  heard 
that  Mrs.  Mair  had  given  Lizzy  Findlay 
shelter  for  a  season.  And  now  a  neigh- 
bor had  observed  and  put  her  own  con- 
struction on  the  visit,  her  report  of  which 
strengthened  the  general  conviction  of 
his  unworthiness. 

Descending  from  the  promontory  and 
wandering  slowly  along  the  shore,  he 
met  the  Scaurnose  part  of  the  congrega- 
tion returning  home.  The  few  salutations 
dropped  him  as  he  passed  were  distant 
and  bore  an  expression  of  disapproval. 
Mrs.  Mair  only,  who  was  walking  with 
a  friend,  gave  him  a  kind  nod. 

Blue  Peter,  who  followed  at  a  little 
distance,  turned  and  walked  back  with 
him.  "I'm  exerceesed  i'  my  min',"  he 
said  as  soon  as  they  were  clear  of  the 
stragglers,  "aboot  the  turn  things  hae 
taen  doon-by  at  the  Barn." 

"They  tell  me  there's  some  gey  queer 
customers  taen  to  haudin'  furth,"  return- 
ed Malcolm. 

"  It's  a  fac',"  answered  Peter.  "  The 
fowk  '11  hardly  hear  a  word  noo  frae  ony 
o'  the  aulder  an'  soberer  Christi-ans. 
They  haena  the  gift  o'  the  Speerit,  they 
say.  But  in  place  o'  sterrin'  them  up  to 
tak  hold  upo'  their  Maker,  their  new 
lichts  set  them  up  to  luik  doon  upo'  ither 
fowk,  propheseein'  an'  denuncin'  as  gien 
the  Lord  had  committit  jeedgment  into 
their  ban's." 

"What  is  't  they  tak  baud  o'  to  misca' 
them  for?"  asked  Malcolm. 

"  It's  no  sae  muckle,"  answered  Peter, 
"for  onything  they  du,  as  for  what  they 
believe  or  dinna  believe.  There's  an 
'uman  frae  Clamrock  was  o'  their  pairty 
the  nicht.  She  stude  up  an'  spak  weel, 
an'  weel  oot,  but  no  to  muckle  profit,  as 
't  seemed  to  me ;  only  I'm  maybe  no  a 
fair  jeedge,  for  I  cudna  be  rid  o'  the  no- 
tion 'at  she  was  lattin'  at  mysel'  a'  the 
time  :  I  dinna  ken  what  for.  An'  I  cud- 
na help  wonnerin'  gien  she  kent  what 
fowk  used  to  say  aboot  herscl'  whan  she 


MALCOLM. 


215 


was  a  lass  ;  for  gien  the  sma'  half  o'  that 
was  true,  a  body  micht  think  the  new 
grace  gien  her  wad  hae  driven  her  to 
hide  her  head,  i'  place  o'  exaltin'  her 
horn  on  high.  But  maybe  it  was  a' 
lees  :  she  kens  best  hersel'." 

"There  canna  be  muckle  worship  gae- 
in'  on  wi'  ye  by  this  time,  than,  I'm 
thinkin',"  said  Malcolm. 

"  I  dinna  like  to  say  't,"  returned  Jo- 
seph ;  "  but  there's  a  speerit  o'  speerit- 
ooal  pride  abroad  amang  's,  it  seems 
to  me,  'at  's  no  fawvorable  to  devotion. 
They  hae  taen  't  intill  their  heids,  for  ae 
thing — an  that's  what  Dilse's  Bess  lays 
on  at — 'at  'cause  they're  fisher-fowk  they 
hae  a  speecial  mission  to  convert  the 
warl'." 

"What  foon'  they  that  upo' ?"  asked 
Malcolm. 

"Ow,  what  the  Saviour  said  to  Peter 
an'  the  lave  o'  them,  'at  was  fishers — to 
come  wi'  Him  an'  He  wad  mak  them 
fishers  o'  men." 

"Ay,  I  see.  What  for  dinna  ye  bide  at 
hame,  you  an'  the  lave  o'  the  douce  anes  ?" 

"There  ye  come  upo'  the  thing  'at  's 
troublin'  me.  Are  we  'at  begude  it  to 
brak  it  up  ?  Or  are  we  to  stan'  aside 
an'  lat  it  a'  gang  to  dirt  an'  green  bree  ? 
Or  are  we  to  bide  wi'  them  an'  warsle 
aboot  holy  words  till  we  tyne  a'  stamach 
for  holy  things  ?" 

"Cud  ye  brak  it  up  gien  ye  tried?" 
asked  Malcolm. 

"I  doobt  no.  That's  ane  o'  the  con- 
siderations 'at  hings  some  sair  upo'  me  : 
see  what  we  hae  dune  !" 

"  What  for  dinna  ye  gang  ower  to  Mais- 
ter  Graham  an'  speir  what  he  thinks  ?" 

"  What  for  sud  I  gang  till  him  ?  What 
's  he  but  a  fine  moaral  man  ?  I  never 
h'ard  'at  he  had  ony  discernment  o'  the 
min'  o'  the  Speerit." 

"  That's  what  Dilse's  Bess  frae  Clam- 
rock  wad  say  aboot  yersel';  Peter." 

"An'  I  doobt  she  wadna  be  far  wrang." 

"Ony  gait,  she  kens  nae  mair  aboot 
you  nor  ye  ken  aboot  the  maister.  Ca' 
ye  a  man  wha  cares  for  naething  in 
h'aven  or  in  earth  but  the  wuU  o'  's 
Creator — ca'  ye  sic  a  man  no  speeritual  ? 
Jist  gang  ye  till  'im,  an'  maybe  he'll  lat 
in  a  glent  upo'  ye  'at  '11  astonish  ye." 


"  He's  taen  unco  little  enterest  in  ony- 
thing  'at  was  gaein'  on." 

"Arena  ye  some  wissin'  ye  hadna  taen 
muckle  mair  yersel',  Peter?" 

"'Deed  am  I!  But  gien  he  be  giftit 
like  that  ye  say,  what  for  didna  he  try 
to  baud  's  richt  ?" 

"Maybe  he  thoucht  ye  wad  mak  yer 
mistaks  better  wantin'  him." 

"  Weel,  ye  dinna  ca'  that  freenly?" 

"What  for  no?  I  hae  h'ard  him  say 
fowk  canna  come  richt  'cep'  by  haein' 
room  to  gang  wrang.  But  jist  ye  gang 
till  him  noo  :  maybe  he'll  open  mair  een 
i'  yer  heids  nor  ye  kent  ye  had." 

"Weel,  maybe  we  micht  du  waur.  I 
s'  mention  the  thing  to  Bow-o'-meal  an' 
Jeames  Gentle,  an'  see  what  ihey  say. 
There's  nae  guid  to  be  gotten  o'  gaein' 
to  the  minister,  ye  see :  there's  naething 
in  him,  as  the  saw  says,  but  what  the 
spune  pits  intill  him." 

With  this  somewhat  unfavorable  re- 
mark Blue  Peter  turned  homeward. 
Malcolm  went  slowly  back  to  his  room, 
his  tallow  candle  and  his  volume  of 
Gibbon. 

He  read  far  into  the  night,  and  his 
candle  was  burning  low  in  the  socket. 
Suddenly  he  sat  straight  up  in  his  chair, 
listening :  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound 
in  the  next  room — it  was  impossible  even 
to  imagine  of  what,  it  was  such  a  mere 
abstraction  of  sound.  He  listened  with 
every  nerve,  but  heard  nothing  more ; 
crept  to  the  door  of  the  wizard's  cham- 
ber and  listened  again  ;  listened  until  he 
could  no  longer  tell  whether  he  heard  or 
not,  and  felt  like  a  deaf  man  imagining 
sounds ;  then  crept  back  to  his  own 
room  and  went  to  bed — all  but  satisfied 
that  if  it  was  anything  it  must  have  been 
some  shaking  window  or  door  he  had. 
heard. 

But  he  could  not  get  rid  of  the  notion 
that  he  had  smelt  sulphur. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 
THE   schoolmaster's   COTTAGE. 

The  following  night  three  of  the 
Scaurnose  fishermen — Blue  Peter,  Bow- 
o'-meal  and  Jeames   Gentle — called  at 


2l6 


MALCOLM. 


the  schoolmaster's  cottage  in  the  Alton, 
and  were  soon  deep  in  earnest  conver- 
sation with  him  around  his  peat-fire  in 
the  room  which  served  him  for  study, 
dining-room  and  bed-chamber.  All  the 
summer  a  honeysuckle  outside  watched 
his  back  window  for  him  ;  now  it  was 
guarded  within  by  a  few  flowerless  plants. 
It  was  a  deep  little  window  in  a  thick 
wall,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  as  if  thence 
the  privileged  might  look  into  some 
region  of  strange  and  precious  things. 
The  front  window  was  comparatively 
commonplace,  with  a  white  muslin  cur- 
tain across  the  lower  half.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  sanded  floor  stood  a  table  of 
white  deal  much  stained  with  ink.  The 
green-painted  doors  of  the  box-bed  op- 
posite the  hearth  stood  open,  revealing 
a  spotless  white  counterpane.  On  the 
wall  beside  the  front  window  hung  by 
red  cords  three  shelves  of  books,  and 
near  the  back  window  stood  a  dark  old- 
fashioned  bureau,  with  pendent  brass 
handles  as  bright  as  new,  supporting  a 
bookcase  with  glass  doors  crowded  with 
well-worn  bindings.  A  few  deal  chairs 
completed  the  furniture. 

"  It's  a  sair  vex,  sir,  to  think  o'  what 
we  a'  jeedged  to  be  the  wark  o'  the 
Speerit  takin'  sic  a  turn.  I'm  feart  it  '11 
lie  heavy  at  oor  door,"  said  Blue  Peter 
after  a  sketch  of  the  state  of  affairs. 

"I  don't  think  they  can  have  sunk  so 
low  as  the  early  Corinthian  church  yet," 
said  Mr.  Graham,  "and  Saint  Paul  never 
seems  to  have  blamed  himself  for  preach- 
ing the  gospel  to  the  Corinthians." 

"Weel,  maybe,"  rejoined  Mair.  "But, 
^meantime,  the  practical  p'int  is.  Are  we 
to  tyauve  {struggle)  to  set  things  richt 
.again,  or  are  we  to  lea'  them  to  their  ain 
•devices?" 

"What  power  have  you  to  set  things 
right?" 

"Nane,  sir.  The  Baillies'  Barn  's  as 
free  to  them  as  to  oorsel's." 

"What  influence  have  you,  then  ?" 

"Unco  little,"  said  Bow-o'-meal,  taking 
the  word.  "They're  afore  the  win".  An' 
it's  plain  eneuch  'at  to  stan'  up  an'  op- 
pose them  wad  be  but  to  breed  strife  an' 
debate." 

"An'  that  micht  put  mony  a  waukent 


conscience  soon'  asleep  again  —  maybe 
no  to  be  waukent  ony  mair,"  said  Blue 
Peter. 

"Then  you  don't  think  you  can  either 
communicate  or  receive  benefit  by  con- 
tinuing to  take  a  part  in  those  meet- 
ings?" 

"We  dinna  think  it,"  answered  all 
three. 

"  Then  the  natural  question  is,  '  Why 
should  you  go  ?'  " 

"We're  feart  for  the  guilt  o'  what  the 
minister  ca's  shism,"  said  Blue  Peter. 

"  That  might  have  occurred  to  you  be- 
fore you  forsook  the  parish  church,"  said 
the  schoolmaster  with  a  smile. 

"  But  there  was  nae  speeritooal  noorish- 
ment  to  be  gotten  i'  that  houff  [haunt)," 
said  Jeames  Gentle. 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  the  want 
of  it?" 

"0\v,  that  cam  fra  the  Speerit  himsel' 
— what  else?"  replied  Gentle. 

"  By  what  means  ?" 

"  By  the  readin'  o'  the  word  an'  by 
prayer,"  answered  Gentle. 

"By  Hisain  v'ice  i'  thehert,"  said  Bow- 
o'-meal. 

"Then  a  public  assembly  is  not  neces- 
sary for  the  communication  of  the  gifts 
of  the  Spirit?" 

They  were  silent. 

"  Isn't  it  possible  that  the  eagerness 
after  such  assemblies  may  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  a  want  of  confidence  in 
what  the  Lord  says  of  his  kingdom — that 
it  spreads  like  the  hidden  leaven,  grows 
like  the  buried  seed  ?  My  own  convic- 
tion is,  that  if  a  man  would  but  bend  his 
energies  to  live,  if  he  would  but  try  to 
be  a  true — that  is,  a  godlike — man  in  all 
his  dealings  with  his  fellows,  a  genuine 
neighbor  and  not  a  selfish  unit,  he  would 
open  such  channels  for  the  flow  of  the 
Spirit  as  no  amount  of  even  honest  and 
so-called  successful  preaching  could." 

"Wha  but  Ane  was  ever  fit  to  lead  sic 
a  life  's  that  ?" 

"All  might  be  trying  after  it.  In  pro- 
portion as  our  candle  burns  it  will  give 
light.  No  talking  about  light  will  sup- 
ply the  lack  of  its  presence  either  to  the 
talker  or  the  listeners." 
I       "There's  a  heap  made  o'  the  preachin' 


MALCOLM. 


217 


o'  the  word  i'  the  buik  itsel',"  said  Peter 
with  emphasis. 

"Undoubtedly.  But  just  look  at  our 
Lord :  He  never  stopped  living  amongst 
his  people — hasn't  stopped  yet ;  but  He 
often  refused  to  preach,  and  personally 
has  given  it  up  altogether  now." 

"Ay,  but  ye  see  He  kent  what  He  was 
duin'." 

"And  so  will  every  man  in  proportion 
as  he  partakes  of  his  Spirit." 

"  But  dinna  ye  believe  there  is  sic  a 
thing  as  gettin'  a  call  to  the  preachin'  ?" 

"  I  do  ;  but  even  then  a  man's  work  is 
of  worth  only  as  it  supplements  his  life. 
A  network  of  spiritual  fibres  connects  the 
two,  makes  one  of  them." 

"But  surely,  sir,  them  'at 's  o'  the  same 
niin'  ouclit  to  meet  an'  stir  ane  anither 
up  ?  '  They  that  feart  the  Lord  spak  aften 
thegither,'  ye  ken." 

"What  should  prevent  them.''  Why 
should  not  such  as  delight  in  each  other's 
society  meet  and  talk  and  pray  together 
— address  each  the  others  if  they  like  ? 
There  is  plenty  of  opportunity  for  that, 
without  forsaking  the  Church  or  calling 
public  meetings.  To  continue  your  quo- 
tation— 'The  Lord  hearkened  and  heard;' 
observe,  the  Lord  is  not  here  said  to  heark- 
en to  sermons  or  prayers,  but  to  the  talk 
of  his  people.  This  would  have  saved 
you  from  false  relations  with  men  that 
oppose  themselves,  caring  nothing  for  the 
truth — perhaps  eager  to  save  their  souls, 
nothing  more  at  the  very  best." 

"Sir!  sir!  what  wad  ye  hae  ?  Daur  ye 
say  it's  no  a  body's  first  duty  to  save  his 
ain  sowl  alive  ?"  e.\claimed  Bow-o'-meal. 

"I  daur't,  but  there's  little  daur  in- 
till  't,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  breaking  into 
Scotch. 

Bow-o'-meal  rose  from  his  chair  in  in- 
dignation. Blue  Peter  made  a  grasp  at 
his  bonnet,  and  Jeames  Gentle  gave  a 
loud  sigh  of  commiseration. 

"  I  allow  it  to  be  a  very  essential  piece 
of  prudence,"  added  the  schoolmaster, 
resuming  his  quieter  English,  "but  the 
first  duty  ? — no.  The  Catechism  might 
have  taught  you  better  than  that.  To 
mind  his  chief  end  must  surely  be  man's 
first  duty,  and  the  Catechism  says, '  Man's 
chief  end  is  to  glorify  God.'  " 


"And  to  enjoy  him  for  ever,"  supple- 
mented Peter, 

"That's  a  safe  consequence:  there's 
no  fear  of  the  second  if  he  does  the  first. 
Any  how,  he  cannot  enjoy  Him  for  ever 
this  moment,  and  he  can  glorify  Him  at 
once." 

"Ay,  but  hoo  ?"  said  Bow-o'-meal, 
ready  to  swoop  upon  the  master's  reply. 

"Just  as  Jesus  Christ  did — by  doing 
his  will,  by  obedience." 

"  That's  no  faith — it's  works  !  Ye'Il 
never  save  yer  sowl  that  gait,  sir." 

"No  man  can  ever  save  his  soul :  God 
only  can  do  that.  You  can  glorify  Him 
by  giving  yourself  up  heart  and  soul  and 
body  and  life  to  his  Son.  Then  you 
shall  be  saved.  That  you  must  leave  to 
Him,  and  do  what  He  tells  y on.  There 
will  be  no  fear  of  the  saving  then,  though 
it  's  not  an  easy  matter — even  for  Him, 
as  has  been  sorely  proved." 

"An'  hoo  are  we  to  gie  oorsel's  up  till 
Him  ?  for  ye  see  we're  practical  kin'  o' 
fowk,  huz  fisher-fowk,  Maister  Graham," 
said  Bow-o'-meal.  The  tone  implied 
that  the  schoolmaster  was  not  practical. 

"  I  say  again,  in  doing  his  will  and 
not  your  own." 

"An'  what  may  his  wuU  be  ?" 

"  Is  He  not  telling  you  himself  at  this 
moment  ?  Do  you  not  know  what  his 
will  is  ?  How  should  /  come  between 
Him  and  you  !  For  anything  I  know, 
it  may  be  that  you  pay  your  next-door 
neighbor  a  crown  you  owe  him,  or  make 
an  apology  to  the  one  on  the  other  side, 
/do  not  know  :  you  do." 

"Dinna  ye  think  aboot  savin'  yer  ain 
sowl,  noo,  Maister  Graham  ?"  said  Bow- 
o'-meal,  returning  on  their  track. 

"No,  I  don't.  I've  forgotten  all  about 
that.  I  only  desire  and  pray  to  do  the 
will  of  my  God,  which  is  all  in  all  to 
me." 

"  What  say  ye,  than,  aboot  the  sowls 
o'  ither  fowk  ?  Wadna  ye  save  them — 
no  ?" 

"Gladly  would  I  save  them,  but  ac- 
cording to  the  will  of  God.  If  1  were, 
even  unwittingly,  to  attempt  it  in  any 
other  way,  I  should  be  casting  stumbling- 
blocks  in  their  path  and  separating  my- 
self from  my  God — doing  that  which  is 


2l8 


MALCOLM. 


not  of  faith,  and  therefore  is  sin.  It  is 
only  where  a  man  is  at  one  with  God 
that  he  can  do  the  right  thing  or  take 
the  right  way.  Whatever  springs  from 
any  other  source  than  the  Spirit  that 
dwelt  in  Jesus  is  of  sin,  and  works  to 
thwart  the  Divine  will.  Who  knows 
what  harm  may  be  done  to  a  man  by 
hurrying  a  spiritual  process  in  him  ?" 

"  I  doobt,  sir,  gien  your  doctrine  was 
to  get  a  hearin',  there  wad  be  unco  little 
dune  for  the  glory  o'  God  i'  this  place," 
remarked  Bow-o'-meal  with  sententious 
reproof. 

"  But  what  was  done  would  be  of  the 
right  sort,  and  surpassingly  powerful." 

"Weel,  to  come  back  to  the  business 
in  han',  what  would  be  yer  advice  ?" 
said  Bow-o'-meal. 

"That's  a  thing  none  but  a  lawyer 
should  give.  I  have  shown  you  what 
seem  to  me  the  principles  involved :  1 
can  do  no  more." 

"Ye  dinna  ca'  that  neeborly,  whan  a 
body  comes  speirin'  't !" 

"Are  you  prepared,  then,  to  take  my 
advice  ?" 

"  Ye  wadna  hae  a  body  du  that  afore- 
han'  ?  We  micht  as  weel  a'  be  papists 
an'  believe  as  we're  tauld." 

"Precisely  so.  But  you  can  exercise 
your  judgment  upon  the  principles  where- 
on my  opinion  is  founded,  with  far  more 
benefit  than  upon  my  opinion  itself; 
which  I  cannot  well  wish  you  to  adopt, 
seeing  I  think  it  far  better  for  a  man  to 
go  wrong  upon  his  own  honest  judgment 
than  to  go  right  upon  anybody  else's 
judgment,  however  honest  also." 

"  Ye  hae  a  heap  o'  queer  doctrines,  sir." 

"And  yet  you  ask  advice  of  me  ?" 

"We  haena  ta'en  muckle,  ony  gait," 
returned  Bow-o'-meal  rudely,  and  walk- 
ed from  the  cottage. 

Jeames  Gentle  and  Blue  Peter  bade 
the  master  a  kindly  good-night,  and  fol- 
lowed Bow-o'-meal. 

The  next  Sunday  evening  Blue  Peter 
was  again  at  the  Alton,  accompanied  by 
Gentle  and  another  fisherman,  not  Bow- 
o'-meal,  and  had  another  and  longer  con- 
versation with  the  schoolmaster.  The 
following  Sunday  he  went  yOt  again, 
and  from  that  time,  every  Sunday  even- 


ing, as  soon  as  he  had  had  his  tea,  Blue 
Peter  took  down  his  broad  bonnet  and 
set  out  to  visit  Mr.  Graham.  As  he  went, 
one  and  another  would  join  him  as  he 
passed,  the  number  increasing  every 
time,  until  at  last  ten  or  twelve  went 
regularly. 

But  Mr.  Graham  did  not  like  such  a 
forsaking  of  wives  and  children  on  the 
Sunday.  "  Why  shouldn't  you  bring  Mrs. 
Mair  with  you  ?"  he  said  one  evening, 
addressing  Joseph  first.  Then  turning 
to  the  rest,  "  I  should  be  happy  to  see 
any  of  your  wives  who  can  come,"  he 
added;  "and  some  of  you  have  chil- 
dren who  would  be  no  trouble.  If  there 
is  any  good  in  gathering  this  way,  why 
shouldn't  we  have  those  with  us  who  are 
our  best  help  at  all  other  times  ?" 

"'Deed,  sir,"  said  Joseph,  "we're  sae 
used  to  oor  wives  'at  we're  ower  ready 
to  forget  hoo  ill  we  cud  du  wantin'  them." 

Mrs.  Mair  and  two  other  wives  came 
the  next  night.  A  few  hung  back  from 
modesty  and  dread  of  being  catechised, 
but  ere  long  about  half  a  dozen  went 
when  they  could. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  Malcolm,  as 
soon  as  he  learned  what  was  going  on, 
made  one  of  the  company.  And  truly, 
although  he  did  not  know  even  yet  all 
the  evil  that  threatened  him,  he  stood  in 
heavy  need  of  the  support  and  comfort 
to  be  derived  from  such  truths  as  Mr. 
Graham  unfolded.  Duncan  also,  al- 
though he  took  little  interest  in  what 
passed,  went  sometimes,  and  was  wel- 
comed. 

The  talk  of  the  master  not  unfrequent- 
ly  lapsed  into  monologue,  and  some- 
times grew  eloquent.  Seized  occasion- 
ally by  the  might  of  the  thoughts  wliich 
arose  in  him — thoughts  which  would,  to 
him,  have  lost  all  their  splendor  as  well 
as  worth  had  he  imagined  them  the  off- 
spring of  his  own  faculty,  mctcois  of  his 
own  atmosphere,  instead  of  phenomena 
of  the  heavenly  region  manifesting  them- 
selves on  the  hollow  side  of  the  celestial 
sphere  of  human  vision — he  would  break 
forth  in  grand  poetic  speech  that  roused  to 
aspiration  Malcolm's  whole  being,  while 
in  the  same  instant  calming  him  with  the 
summer  peace  of  profoundest  faith. 


MALCOLM. 


219 


To  no  small  proportion  of  his  hearers 
some  of  such  outbursts  were  altogether 
unintelligible — a  matter  of  no  moment 
— but  there  were  of  them  who  under- 
stood enough  to  misunderstand  utterly  : 
interpreting  his  riches  by  their  poverty, 
they  misinterpreted  them  pitifully,  and 
misrepresented  them  worse.  And,  alas  ! 
in  the  little  company  there  were  three  or 
four  men  who,  for  all  their  upward  im- 
pulses, yet  remained  capable  of  treach- 
ery, because  incapable  of  recognizing 
the  temptation  to  it  for  what  it  was. 
These  by  and  by  began  to  confer  to- 
gether and  form  an  opposition — in  this 
at  least  ungenerous,  that  they  continued 
to  assemble  at  his  house  and  show  little 
token  of  dissension.  When,  however, 
they  began  at  length  to  discover  that  the 
master  did  not  teach  that  interpretation 
of  atonement  which  they  had  derived 
they  little  knew  whence,  but  delivered 
another  as  the  doctrine  of  Saint  Paul, 
Saint  Peter  and  Saint  John,  they  judged 
themselves  bound  to  take  measures  to- 
ward the  quenching  of  a  dangerous 
heresy.  For  the  more  ignorant  a  man 
is,  the  more  capable  is  he  of  being  ab- 
solutely certain  of  many  things — with 
such  certainty,  that  is,  as  consists  in  the 
absence  of  doubt.  Mr.  Graham,  in  the 
mean  time,  full  of  love  and  quiet  solemn 
fervor,  placed  completest  confidence  in 
their  honesty  and  spoke  his  mind  freely 
and  faithfully. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 
ONE   DAY. 

The  winter  was  close  at  hand — indeed 
in  that  northern  region  might  already 
have  claimed  entire  possession — but  the 
trailing  golden  fringe  of  the  skirts  of 
Autumn  was  yet  visible  behind  him  as 
he  wandered  away  down  the  slope  of 
the  world.  In  the  gentle  sadness  of  the 
season  Malcolm  could  not  help  looking 
back  with  envy  to  the  time  when  labor, 
adventure  and  danger,  stormy  winds 
and  troubled  waters,  would  have  helped 
him  to  bear  the  weight  of  the  moral  at- 
mosphere which  now  from  morning  to 
night  oppressed  him.  Since  their  last 
conversation  Lady  Florimel's  behavior 


to  him  was  altered.  She  hardly  ever 
sent  for  him  now,  and,  when  she  did, 
gave  her  orders  so  distantly  that  at  length, 
but  for  his  grandfather's  sake,  he  could 
hardly  have  brought  himself  to  remain 
in  the  house  even  until  the  return  of  his 
master,  who  was  from  home,  and  con- 
templated proposing  to  him  as  soon  as 
he  came  back  that  he  should  leave  his 
service  and  resume  his  former  occupa- 
tion, at  least  until  the  return  of  summer 
should  render  it  fit  to  launch  the  cutter 
again. 

One  day,  a  little  after  noon,  Malcolm 
stepped  from  the  house.  The  morning 
had  broken  gray  and  squally,  with  fre- 
quent sharp  showers,  and  had  grown 
into  a  gurly,  gusty  day.  Now  and  then 
the  sun  sent  a  dim  yellow  glint  through 
the  troubled  atmosphere,  but  this  was 
straightway  swallowed  up  in  the  volumes 
of  vapor  seething  and  tumbling  in  the 
upper  regions.  As  he  crossed  the  thresh- 
old there  came  a  moaning  wind  from  the 
west,  and  the  water-laden  branches  of 
the  trees  all  went  bending  before  it, 
shaking  their  burden  of  heavy  drops  on 
the  ground.  It  was  dreary,  dreary,  out- 
side and  in.  He  turned  and  looked  at 
the  house.  If  he  might  have  but  one 
peep  of  the  goddess  far  withdrawn ! 
What  did  he  want  of  her  ?  Nothing  but 
her  favor — something  acknowledged  be- 
tween them — some  understanding  of  ac- 
cepted worship.  Alas !  it  was  all  weak- 
ness, and  the  end  thereof  dismay.  It 
was  but  the  longing  of  the  opium-eater 
or  the  drinker  for  the  poison  which  in 
delight  lays  the  foundations  of  torture. 
No  :  he  knew  where  to  find  food — some- 
thing that  was  neither  opium  nor  strong 
drink,  something  that  in  torture  sustain- 
ed, and  when  its  fruition  came  would, 
even  in  the  splendors  of  delight,  far  sur- 
pass their  short-lived  boon.  He  turned 
toward  the  schoolmaster's  cottage. 

Under  the  trees,  which  sighed  aloud 
in  the  wind,  and  like  earth-clouds  rained 
upon  him  as  he  passed,  across  the  church- 
yard, bare  to  the  gray,  hopeless-looking 
sky,  through  the  iron  gate  he  went,  and 
opened  the  master's  outer  door.  Ere  he 
reached  that  of  his  room  he  heard  his 
voice  inviting  him  to  enter. 


MALCOLM. 


"  Come  to  condole  with  me,  Malcolm  ?' ' 
said  Mr.  Graham  cheerily. 

"What  for,  sir?"  asked  Malcolm. 

"  You  haven't  heard,  then,  that  I'm 
going  to  be  sent  about  my  business  ?  At 
least,  it's  more  than  likely." 

Malcolm  dropped  into  a  seat  and 
stared  like  an  idol.  Could  he  have 
heard  the  words  ?  In  his  eyes  Mr.  Gra- 
ham was  the  man  of  the  place — the  real 
person  of  the  parish.  He  dismissed ! 
The  words  breathed  of  mingled  impiety 
and  absurdity. 

The  schoolmaster  burst  out  laughing 
at  him. 

"  I'm  feartto  speyk,  sir,"  said  Malcolm. 
"Whatever  I  say,  I'm  bun'  to  mak  a 
fule  o'  mysel'.  What,  in  plain  words, 
div  ye  mean,  sir?" 

"Somebody  has  been  accusing  me  of 
teaching  heresy — in  the  school  to  my 
scholars,  and  in  my  own  house  to  the 
fisher-folk :  the  presbytery  has  taken  it 
up,  and  here  is  my  summons  to  appear 
before  them  and  answer  to  the  charge." 

"Guid  preserve  's,  sir  !  An'  is  this  the 
first  ye  hae  h'ard  o'  't  ?" 

"  The  very  first." 

"An'  what  are  ye  gaun'  to  du?" 

"Appear,  of  course." 

"An'  what'll  ye  say  to  them  ?" 

"  I  shall  answer  their  questions." 

"They'll  condemn  ye." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it." 

"An'  what  neist  ?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  leave  Scotland,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Sir,  it's  awfu' !" 

The  horror-stricken  expression  of  Mal- 
colm's face  drew  a  second  merry  laugh 
from  Mr.  Graham.  "They  can't  burn 
me,"  he  said:  "you  needn't  look  like 
that." 

"  But  there's  something  terrible  wrang, 
sir,  whan  sic  men  hae  pooer  ower  sic  a 
man." 

"  They  have  no  power  but  what's  given 
them.  I  shall  accept  their  decision  as 
the  decree  of  Heaven." 

"  It's  weel  to  be  you,  sir,  'at  can  tak  a 
thing  sae  quaiet." 

"You  mustn't  suppose  I  am  naturally 
so  philosophical.  It  stands  for  five-and- 
forty  years  of  the  teaching  of  the  Son 


of  Man  in  this  wonderful  school  of  his, 
where  the  clever  would  be  destroyed  but 
for  the  stupid,  where  the  Church  would 
tear  itself  to  pieces  but  for  the  laws  of 
the  world,  and  where  the  wicked  them- 
selves are  the  greatest  furtherance  of 
godliness  in  the  good." 

"  But  wha  ever  cud  hae  been  baze 
eneuch  to  du  't?"  said  Malcolm,  too 
much  astounded  for  his  usual  eager  at- 
tention to  the  words  that  fell  from  the 
master. 

"That  I  would  rather  not  inquire," 
answered  Mr.  Graham.  "  In  the  mean 
time,  it  would  be  better  if  the  friends 
would  meet  somewhere  else,  for  this 
house  is  mine  only  in  virtue  of  my  office. 
Will  you  tell  them  so  for  me  ?" 

"  Surely,  sir.    But  will  ye  no  mak  ane  ?" 

"Not  till  this  is  settled.  I  will  after, 
so  long  as  I  may  be  here." 

"Gien  onybody  had  been  catecheesin' 
the  bairns,  I  wad  surely  hae  h'ard  o' 
't — "  said  Malcolm,  after  a  pause  of 
rumination  :  "  Poochy  wad  hae  tellt  me. 
I  saw  him  thestreen  [yester-eveii).  Wha 
'ill  ever  say  again  a  thing  's  no  poas- 
sible  ?" 

"Whatever  doctrine  I  may  have  omit- 
ted to  press  in  the  school,"  said  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, "I  have  inculcated  nothing  at  va- 
riance with  the  Confession  of  Faith  or  the 
Shorter  Catechism." 

"  Hoo  can  ye  say  that,  sir,"  returned 
Malcolm,  "whan,  in  as  well  's  oot  o'  the 
schuil,  ye  hae  aye  insistit  'at  God  's  a  just 
God  —  abune  a'  thing  likin'  to  gie  fair 
play  ?" 

"Well,  does  the  Catechism  say  any- 
thing to  the  contrary  ?" 

"No  in  sae  mony  words,  doobtless,  but 
it  says  a  sicht  o'  things  'at  wad  mak  God 
oot  the  maist  oonrichteous  tyrant  'at  ever 
was." 

"I'm  not  sure  you  can  show  that  logic- 
ally," said  Mr.  Graham.  "I  will  think  it 
over,  however — not  that  I  mean  to  take 
up  any  defence  of  myself.  But  now  I 
have  letters  to  write,  and  must  ask  you 
to  leave  me.  Come  and  see  me  again 
to-morrow." 

Malcolm  went  from  him 

like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn. 


MALCOLM. 


221 


Here  was  trouble  upon  trouble !  But 
what  had  befallen  him  compared  with 
what  had  come  upon  the  schoolmaster  ? 
A  man  like  him  to  be  so  treated!  How 
gladly  he  would  work  for  him  all  the  rest 
of  his  days !  and  how  welcome  his  grand- 
father would  make  him  to  his  cottage ! 
Lord  Lossie  would  be  the  last  to  object. 
But  he  knew  it  was  a  baseless  castle 
while  he  built  it,  for  Mr.  Graham  would 
assuredly  provide  for  himself,  if  it  were 
by  breaking  stones  on  the  road  and  say- 
ing the  Lord's  Prayer.  It  all  fell  to  pieces 
just  as  he  lifted  his  hand  to  Miss  Horn's 
knocker. 

She  received  him  with  a  cordiality  such 
as  even  she  had  never  shown  him  before. 
He  told  her  Avhat  threatened  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. 

She  heai-d  him  to  the  end  without  re- 
mark, beyond  the  interjection  of  an  oc- 
casional "Eh,  sirs  !"  then  sat  for  a  min- 
ute in  troubled  silence.  "There's  a  heap 
o'  things  an  'uman  like  me,"  she  said  at 
length,  "canna  unnerstan'.  I  dinna  ken 
whether  some  fowk  mair  nor  preten'  to 
unnerstan'  them.  But  set  Sandy  Graham 
doon  upo'  ae  side,  an'  the  presbytery  doon 
upo'  the  ither,  an'  I  hae  wit  enuch  to  ken 
whilk  I  wad  tak  my  eternal  chance  wi'. 
Some  o'  the  presbytery  's  guid  eneuch 
men,  but  haena  ower  muckle  gumption  ; 
an'  some  o'  them  has  plenty  o'  gumption, 
but  haena  ower  muckle  grace,  to  jeedge 
by  the  w'y  'at  they  glower  'an  rair,  layin' 
doon  the  law  as  gien  the  Almichty  had 
been  driven  to  tak  coonsel  wi'  them.  But 
look  at  Sandy  Graham !  Ye  ken  whether 
he  has  gumption  or  no ;  an'  gien  he  be  a 
stickit  minister,  he  stack  by  the  grace 
o'  moadesty.  But,  haith!  I  winna  peety 
him,  for,  o'  a'  things,  to  peety  a  guid  man 
i'  the  richt  gait  is  a  fule's  folly.  Troth ! 
I'm  a  hantle  mair  concernt  aboot  yersel', 
Ma'colm." 

Malcolm  heard  her  without  apprehen- 
sion. His  cup  seemed  full,  and  he  never 
thought  that  cups  sometimes  run  over. 
But  perhaps  he  was  so  far  the  nearer  to 
a  truth  :  while  the  cup  of  blessing  may 
and  often  does  run  over,  I  doubt  if  the 
cup  of  suffering  is  ever  more  than  filled 
to  the  brim. 

"Onything  fresh,   mem?"  he   asked, 


with  the  image  of  Mrs.  Stewart  standing 
ghastly  on  the  slopes  of  his  imagination. 
"  I  wadna  be  fit  to  tell  ye,  laddie,  gien 
't  warna,  as  ye  ken,  'at  the  Almichty's 
been  unco  mercifu'  to  me  i'  the  maitter 
o'  feelin's.  Yer  freen's  i'  the  Seaton  an' 
ower  at  Scaurnose  hae  feelin's,  an'  that 
's  hoo  nane  o'  them  a'  has  pluckit  up 
hert  to  tell  ye  o'  the  waggin'  o'  slander- 
ous tongues  against  ye." 

"What  are  they  sayin'  noo  ?"  asked 
Malcolm  with  considerable  indifference. 
"Naither  mair  nor  less  than  that  ye're 
the  father  o'  an  oonborn  wean,"  answer- 
ed Miss  Horn. 

"I  dinna  freely  unnerstan'  ye,"  return- 
ed Malcolm,  for  the  unexpectedness  of 
the  disclosure  was  scarcely  to  be  master- 
ed at  once. 

1  shall  not  put  on  record  the  plain  form 
of  honest  speech  whereby  she  made  him 
at  once  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  ca- 
lumny. He  started  to  his  feet  and  shout- 
ed, "Wha  daur  say  that?"  so  loud  that 
the  listening  Jean  almost  fell  down  the 
stair. 

"Wha  «/(^/say  't  but  the  lassie  hersel'?" 
answered  Miss  Horn  simply.  "She  maun 
hae  the  best  richt  to  say  wha  's  wha." 

"  It  wad  better  become  o?iyhoAy  but 
her,"  said  Malcolm. 

"What  mean  ye  there,  laddie?"  cried 
Miss  Horn,  alarmed. 

" '  At  nane  cud  ken  sae  weel  's  hersel' 
it  was  a  damned  lee.  Wha  is  she  ?" 
"Wha  but  Meg  Partan's  Lizzy?" 
"  Poor  lassie  !  is  that  it  ?  Eh,  but  I'm 
sorry  for  her !  She  never  said  it  was  me. 
An'  whaever  said  it,  surely  ye  dinna  be- 
lieve 't  o'  me,  mem  ?" 

"Me  believe  't!  Ma'colm  MacPhail, 
wuU  ye  daur  insult  a  maiden  wuman  'at's 
stude  clear  o'  reproach  till  she's  lang  past 
the  danger  o'  't  ?  It's  been  wi'  unco  sma' 
diffeeclety,  I  maun  alloo,  for  I  haena' 
been  led  into  ony  temptation." 

"Eh,  mem,"  returned  Malcolm,  per- 
ceiving by  the  flash  of  her  eyes  and  the 
sudden  halt  of  her  speech  that  she  was 
really  indignant,  "I  dinna  ken  what  I 
hae  said  to  anger  ye." 

"Anger  me  !  quo'  he?  What  though 
I  hae  nae  feelin's!  Will  he  daur  till  im- 
aigine  'at  he  wad  be  sittin'  there,  an'  me 


222 


MALCOLM. 


haudin'  him  company,  gien  I  believe  him 
cawpable  o'  turnin'  oot  sic  a  meeserable, 
contemptible  wratch  ?  The  Lord  come 
atvveen  me  an'  my  wrath  !" 

"  I  beg  yer  pardon,  mem.  A  body 
canna  aye  put  things  thegither  afore  he 
speyks.  I'm  richt  sair  ableeged  till  ye 
for  takin'  my  pairt." 

"I  tak  nobody's  pairt  but  my  ain,  lad- 
die. Obleeged  to  me  for  haein'  a  wheen 
coammon  sense — a  thing  'at  I  was  born 
wi' !     Toots !     Dinna  haiver." 

"Weel,  mem,  what  wad  ye  hae  me  du  ? 
I  canna  sen'  my  auld  daddie  roon'  the 
toon  wi'  his  pipes  to  procleem  'at  I'm  no 
the  man.  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  hae  to  lea'  the 
place." 

"Wad  ye  sen'  yer  daddy  roon'  wi'  the 
pipes  to  say  'at  ye  was  the  man  ?  Ye 
micht  as  weel  du  the  tane  as  the  tither. 
Mony  a  better  man  has  been  waur  mis- 
ca'd,  an'  gart  fowk  forget  'at  ever  the 
lee  was  lee'd.  Na,  na,  niver  rin  frae  a 
lee.  An'  never  say,  naither,  'at  ye  didna 
du  the  thing,  'cep'  it  be  laid  straucht  to 
yer  face.  Lat  a  lee  lie  i'  the  dirt.  Gien 
ye  pike  it  up,  the  dirt  '11  stick  till  ye, 
though  ye  fling  the  lee  ower  the  dyke  at 
the  warl's  en'.  Na,  na !  Lat  a  lee  lie, 
as  ye  wad  the  deevil's  tail  'at  the  laird's 
Jock  took  aff  wi  the  edge  o'  's  spaud." 

"A'  thing's  agane  me  the  noo,"  sighed 
Malcolm. 

'Auld  Jobb  ower  again !"  returned  Miss 
Horn  almost  sarcastically.  "The  deil  had 
the  warst  o'  't,  though,  an'  wuU  hae  i'  the 
langhinner  en'.  Meantime  ye  maun  face 
him.  There's  nae  airmor  for  the  back 
aither  i'  the  Bible  or  the  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress." 

"What  wad  ye  hae  me  du,  than,  mem  ?" 

"  Du !  Wha  said  ye  was  to  du  ony- 
thing  ?  The  best  duin  whiles  is  to  bide 
still.  Lat  ye  the  jaw  (7vave)  gae  ower 
ohn  joukit  (without  ducking).'' 

"Gien  I  binna  to  du  onything  I  maist 
wiss  1  hadna  kent,"  said  Malcolm,  whose 
honorable  nature  writhed  under  the  im- 
puted vileness. 

"It's  aye  better  to  ken  in  what  licht  ye 
Stan'  wi"  ither  fowk.  It  bauds  ye  ohn 
lippent  Qwer  muckle,  an'  sae  dune  things 
or  made  remarks  'at  wad  be  misread  till 
ye.     Yc  maun  baud  an  open  ro'd,  'at 


the  trowth  whan  it  comes  oot  may  hae 
free  coorse.  The  ae  thing  'at  spites  me 
is,  'at  the  verra  fowk  'at  was  the  first  to 
spread  yer  ill  report  '11  be  the  first  to 
wuss  ye  weel  whan  the  trowth  's  kent ; 
ay,  an'  they'll  persuaud  their  verra  sel's 
'at  they  stack  up  for  ye  like  born  brithers." 

"  There  maun  be  some  jeedgment  upo' 
leein'." 

"  The  warst  wuss  I  hae  agane  ony  sic 
backbiter  is  that  he  may  live  to  be  af- 
frontit  at  himsel*.  Efter  that  he'll  be 
guid  eneuch  company  for  me.  Gang 
yer  wa's,  laddie — say  yer  prayers  an' 
haud  up  yer  held.  Wha  wadna  raither 
be  accused  o'  a'  the  sins  i'  the  comman'- 
ments  nor  be  guilty  o'  ane  o'  them  ?" 

Malcolm  did  hold  up  his  head  as  he 
walked  away. 

Not  a  single  person  was  in  the  street. 
Far  below  the  sea  was  chafing  and  toss- 
ing— gray-green  broken  into  white.  The 
horizon  was  formless  with  mist,  hanging 
like  thin  wool  from  the  heavens  down  to 
the  face  of  the  waters,  against  which  the 
wind,  which  had  shifted  round  consid- 
erably toward  the  north  and  blew  in 
quicker  -  coming  and  more  menacing 
gusts,  appeared  powerless.  He  would 
have  gone  to  the  sands  and  paced  the 
shore  till  nightfall,  but  that  he  would  not 
expose  himself  thus  to  unfriendly  eyes 
and  false  judgments.  He  turned  to  the 
right  instead,  and  walked  along  the  top 
of  the  cliffs  eastward.  Buffeted  by  winds 
without  and  hurrying  fancies  within,  he 
wandered  on  until  he  came  near  Colon- 
say  Castle,  at  sight  of  which  the  desire 
awoke  in  him  to  look  again  on  the  scene 
of  Lady  Florimel's  terror.  He  crossed 
the  head  of  the  little  bay  and  descended 
into  the  heart  of  the  rock.  Even  there 
the  wind  blew  dank  and  howling  through 
all  the  cavernous  hollows.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  last  chamber,  out  of  the 
Devil's  Window  flew,  with  clanging 
wing,  an  arrow-barbed  sea-gull  down  to 
the  gray-veiled  tumult  below,  and  the 
joy  of  life  for  a  moment  seized  his  soul. 
But  the  next  the  dismay  of  that  which 
is  forsaken  was  upon  him.  It  was  not 
that  the  once  lordly  structure  lay  aban- 
doned to  the  birds  and  the  gusts,  but 
that  s/w  would  never  think  of  the  place 


MALCOLM. 


223 


without  an  instant  assay  at  forgetfulness. 
He  turned  and  reascended,  feeling  like 
a  ghost  that  had  been  wandering  through 
the  forlorn  chambers  of  an  empty  skull. 

When  he  rose  on  the  bare  top  of  the 
ruin  a  heavy  shower  from  the  sea  was 
beating  slant  against  the  worn  walls  and 
the  gaping  clefts.  Myriads  of  such  rains 
had,  with  age-long  inevitableness,  crum- 
bled away  the  strong  fortress  till  its 
threatful  mass  had  sunk  to  an  abject 
heap.  Thus  all-devouring  Death —  Nay, 
nay!  it  is  all -sheltering,  all -restoring 
Mother  Nature  receiving  again  into  her 
mighty  matrix  the  stuff  worn  out  in  the 
fashioningtoilof  her  wasteful,  greedy  and 
slatternly  children.  In  her  genial  bosom 
the  exhausted  gathers  life,  the  effete  be- 
comes generant,  the  disintegrate  returns 
to  resting  and  capable  form.  The  roll- 
ing, oscillating  globe  dips  it  for  an  aeon 
in  growing  sea,  lifts  it  from  the  sinking 
waters  of  its  thousand-year  bath  to  the 
furnace  of  the  sun,  remodels  and  re- 
moulds, turns  ashes  into  flowers  and  di- 
vides mephitis  into  diamonds  and  breath. 
The  races  of  men  shift  and  hover  like 
shadows  over  her  surface,  while,  as  a 
woman  dries  her  garment  before  the 
household  flame,  she  turns  it  by  portions 
now  to  and  now  from  the  sun-heart  of 
fire.  Oh,  joy  that  all  the  hideous  lacera- 
tions and  vile  gatherings  of  refuse  which 
the  worshipers  of  Mammon  disfigure  the 
earth  withal,  scoring  the  tale  of  their 
coming  dismay  on  the  visage  of  their 
mother,  shall  one  day  lie  fathoms  deep 
under  the  blessed  ocean,  to  be  cleansed 
and  remade  into  holy  because  lovely 
forms  !  May  the  ghosts  of  the  men  who 
mar  the  earth,  turning  her  sweet  rivers 
into  channels  of  filth,  and  her  living  air 
into  irrespirable  vapors  and  pestilences, 
haunt  the  desolations  they  have  made, 
until  they  loathe  the  work  of  their  hands 
and  turn  from  themselves  with  a  divine 
repudiation ! 

It  was  about  half  tide,  and  the  sea 
coming  up,  with  the  wind  straight  from 
the  north,  when  Malcolm,  having  de- 
scended to  the  shore  of  the  little  bay 
and  scrambled  out  upon  the  rocks,  be- 
thought him  of  a  certain  cave  which  he 
had  not  visited  since  he  was  a  child,  and, 


climbing  over  the  high  rocks  between, 
took  shelter  there  from  the  wind.  He 
had  forgotten  how  beautiful  it  was,  and 
stood  amazed  at  the  richness  of  its  color, 
imagining  he  had  come  upon  a  cave  of 
the  serpentine  marble  which  is  found  on 
the  coast ;  for  sides  and  roof  and  rugged 
floor  were  gorgeous  with  bands  and  spots 
and  veins  of  green  and  rusty  red.  A 
nearer  inspection,  however,  showed  that 
these  hues  were  not  of  the  rock  itself, 
but  belonged  to  the  garden  of  the  ocean, 
and  when  he  turned  to  face  the  sea,  lo  ! 
they  had  all  but  vanished,  the  cave 
shone  silvery  gray  with  a  faint  moony 
sparkle,  and  out  came  the  lovely  carving 
of  the  rodent  waves.  All  about,  its  sides 
were  fretted  in  exquisite  curves  and  fan- 
tastic yet  ever-graceful  knots  and  twists, 
as  if  a  mass  of  gnarled  and  contorted 
roots,  first  washed  of  every  roughness 
by  some  ethereal  solvent,  leaving  only 
the  soft  lines  of  yet  grotesque  volutions, 
had  been  transformed  into  mingled  sil- 
ver and  stone.  Like  a  soldier  crab  that 
had  found  a  shell  to  his  mind,  he  gazed 
through  the  yawning  mouth  of  the  cav- 
ern at  the  turmoil  of  the  rising  tide  as  it 
rushed  straight  toward  him  through  a 
low  jagged  channel  in  the  rocks.  But 
straight  with  the  tide  came  the  wind, 
blowing  right  into  the  cave,  and,  finding 
it  keener  than  pleasant,  he  turned  and 
went  farther  in.  After  a  steep  ascent 
some  little  way  the  cavern  took  a  sharp 
turn  to  one  side,  where  not  a  breath  of 
wind,  not  a  glimmer  of  light  reached, 
and  there  he  sat  down  upon  a  stone  and 
fell  a-thinking. 

He  must  face  the  lie  out,  and  he  must 
accept  any  mother  God  had  given  him  ; 
but  with  such  a  mother  as  Mrs.  Stewart, 
and  without  Mr.  Graham,  how  was  he 
to  endure  the  altered  looks  of  his  old 
friends  ?  Faces  indifferent  before  had 
grown  suddenly  dear  to  him,  and  opin- 
ions he  would  have  thought  valueless 
once  had  become  golden  in  his  eyes. 
Had  he  been  such  as  to  deserve  their 
reproaches,  he  would  doubtless  have 
steeled  himself  to  despise  them,  but  his 
innocence  bound  him  to  the  very  people 
who  judged  him  guilty.  And  there  was 
that  awful  certainty  slowly  but  steadily 


224 


MALCOLM. 


drawing  nearer — that  period  of  vacant 
anguish  in  which  Lady  Florimel  must 
vanish  from  his  sight,  and  the  splendor 
of  his  hfe  go  with  her,  to  return  no  more. 
But  not  even  yet  did  he  cherish  any 
fancy  of  coming  nearer  to  her  than  the 
idea  of  absolute  service  authorized.  As 
often  as  the  fancy  had,  compelled  by  the 
lady  herself,  crossed  the  horizon  of  his 
thoughts,  a  repellent  influence  from  the 
same  source  had  been  at  hand  to  sweep 
it  afar  into  its  antenatal  chaos.  But  his 
love  rose  ever  from  the  earth  to  which 
the  blow  had  hurled  it,  puritied  again, 
once  more  all  devotion  and  no  desire, 
careless  of  recognition  beyond  the  ac- 
ceptance of  his  offered  service,  and  con- 
tent that  the  be-all  should  be  the  end-all. 
The  cave  seemed  the  friendliest  place 
he  had  yet  found.  Earth  herself  had  re- 
ceived him  into  her  dark  bosom,  where 
no  eye  could  discover  him,  and  no  voice 
reach  him  but  that  of  the  ocean  as  it 
tossed  and  wallowed  in  the  palm  of 
God's  hand.  He  heard  its  roar  on  the 
rocks  around  him,  and  the  air  was  filled 
with  a  loud  noise  of  broken  waters,  while 
every  now  and  then  the  wind  rushed  with 
a  howl  into  the  cave,  as  if  searching 
for  him  in  its  crannies :  the  wild  raving 
soothed  him,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  would 
gladly  sit  there,  in  the  dark  torn  with 
tumultuous  noises,  until  his  fate  had  un- 
folded itself. 

The  noises  thickened  around  him  as 
the  tide  rose,  but  so  gradually  that,  al- 
though at  length  he  could  not  have  heard 
his  own  voice,  he  was  unaware  of  the 
magnitude  to  which  the  mighty  uproar 
had  enlarged  itself.  Suddenly  some- 
thing smote  the  rock  as  with  the  ham- 
mer of  Thor,  and  as  suddenly  the  air 
around  him  grew  stiflingly  hot.  The 
next  moment  it  was  again  cold.  He 
started  to  his  feet  in  wonder  and  sought 
the  light.  As  he  turned  the  angle  the 
receding  back  of  a  huge  green,  foam- 
spotted  wave,  still  almost  touching  the 
roof  of  the  cavern,  was  sweeping  out 
again  into  the  tumult.  It  had  filled  the 
throat  of  it,  and  so  compressed  the  air 
within  by  the  force  of  its  entrance  as  to 
drive  out  for  the  moment  a  large  portion 
of  its  latent  heat.     Looking  then  at  his 


watch,  Malcolm  judged  it  must  be  about 
high  tide :  brooding  in  the  darkness,  he 
had  allowed  the  moments  to  lapse  un- 
heeded, and  it  was  now  impossible  to 
leave  the  cavern  until  the  tide  had  fallen. 
He  returned  into  its  penetral,  and,  sit- 
ting down  with  the  patience  of  a  fisher- 
man, again  lost  himself  in  reverie. 

The  darkness  kept  him  from  perceiv- 
ing how  the  day  went,  and  the  rapidly 
increasing  roar  of  the  wind  made  the 
diminishing  sound  of  the  tide's  retreat 
less  noticeable.  He  thought  afterward 
that  perhaps  he  had  fallen  asleep :  any- 
how, when  at  length  he  looked  out  the 
waves  were  gone  from  the  rock,  and  the 
darkness  was  broken  only  by  the  distant 
gleam  of  their  white  defeat.  The  wind 
was  blowing  a  hurricane,  and  even  for 
his  practiced  foot  it  was  not  easy  to  sur- 
mount the  high,  abrupt  spines  he  must 
cross  to  regain  the  shore.  It  was  so  dark 
that  he  could  see  nothing  of  the  castle, 
though  it  was  but  a  few  yards  from  him, 
and  he  resolved  therefore,  the  path  along 
the  top  of  the  cliffs  being  unsafe,  to  make 
his  way  across  the  fields  and  return  by 
the  highroad.  The  consequence  was, 
that,  what  with  fences  and  ditches,  the 
violence  of  the  wind  and  his  uncertainty 
about  his  direction,  it  was  so  long  before 
he  felt  the  hard  road  under  his  feet  that 
with  good  reason  he  feared  the  house 
would  be  closed  for  the  night  ere  he 
reached  it. 


CHAPTER   LV. 
THE  SAME  NIGHT. 

When  he  came  within  sight  of  it,  how- 
ever, he  perceived,  by  the  hurried  move- 
ment of  lights,  that  instead  of  being  fold- 
ed in  silence  the  house  was  in  unwonted 
commotion.  As  he  hastened  to  the  south 
door  the  prince  of  the  power  of  the  air 
himself  seemed  to  resist  his  entrance,  so 
fiercely  did  the  wind,  eddying  round  the 
building,  dispute  every  step  he  made  to- 
ward it ;  and  when  at  length  he  reached 
and  opened  it  a  blast,  rushing  up  the  glen 
straight  from  the  sea,  burst  wide  the  op- 
posite one  and  roared  through  the  hall 
like  a  torrent.     Lady  Florimel,  flitting 


MALCOLM. 


225 


across  it  at  the  moment,  was  almost 
blown  down,  and  shrieked  aloud  for 
help.  Malcolm  was  already  at  the  north 
door,  exerting  all  his  strength  to  close  it, 
when  she  spied  him,  and  bounding  to 
him  with  white  face  and  dilated  eyes, 
exclaimed,  "Oh,  Malcolm!  what  a  time 
you  have  been  !" 

"What's  wrang,  my  leddy  ?"  cried 
Malcolm  with  respondent  terror. 

"Don't  you  hear  it.''"  she  answered. 
"The  wind  is  blowing  the  house  down. 
There's  just  been  a  terrible  fall,  and 
every  moment  I  hear  it  going.  If  my 
father  were  only  come !  We  shall  be 
all  blown  into  the  burn." 

"Nae  fear  o'  that,  my  leddy,"  return- 
ed Malcolm.  "The  wa's  o'  the  auld 
carcass  are  'maist  live  rock,  an'  'ill  stan' 
the  warst  win'  'at  ever  blew — this  side  o' 
the  tropics,  ony  gait.  Gien  't  war  ance 
to  get  its  nose  in,  I  wadna  say  but  it 
micht  tirr  [sirip)  the  rufe,  but  it  winna 
blaw  's  intill  the  burn,  my  leddy.  I'll 
jist  gang  and  see  what's  the  mischeef." 

He  was  moving  away,  but  Lady  Flo- 
rimel  stopped  him.  "  No,  no,  Malcolm," 
she  said.  "  It's  very  silly  of  me,  I  dare 
say,  but  I've  been  so  frightened.  They're 
such  a  set  of  geese — Mrs.  Courthope  and 
the  butler,  and  all  of  them  !  Don't  leave 
me,  please." 

"I  viaun  gang  and  see  what's  amiss, 
my  leddy,"  answered  Malcolm  ;  "but  ye 
can  come  wi'  me  gien  ye  like.  What's 
fa'en,  div  ye  think  ?" 

"  Nobody  knows.  It  fell  with  a  noise 
like  thunder,  and  shook  the  whole  house." 

"It's  far  ower-dark  to  see  onything 
frae  the  ootside,"  rejoined  Malcolm — 
"at  least  afore  the  mune's  up.  It's  as 
dark  's  pick.  But  I  can  sune  saitisfee 
mysel'  whether  the  de'il  's  i'  the  hoose 
or  no." 

He  took  a  candle  from  the  hall-table 
and  went  up  the  square  staircase,  follow- 
ed by  Florimel. 

"What  w'y  is  't,  my  leddy,  'at  the 
hoose  is  no  lockit  up,  an'  ilka  body  i' 
their  beds?"  he  asked. 

"  My  father  is  coming  home  to-night : 
didn't  you  know  ?     But  I  should  have 
thought  a  storm  like  this  enough  to  ac- 
count for  people  not  being  in  bed." 
15 


"  It's  a  fearfu'  nicht  for  him  to  be  sae 
far  frae  his.  Whaur's  he  comin'  frae  ? 
Ye  never  speyk  to  me  noo,  my  leddy, 
an'  naebody  tellt  me." 

"  He  was  to  come  from  Fochabers  to- 
night :  Stoat  took  the  bay  mare  to  meet 
him  yesterday." 

"  He  wad  never  start  in  sic  a  win'.  It's 
fit  to  blaw  the  saiddle  aff  o'  the  mear's 
back." 

"He  may  have  started  before  it  came 
on  to  blow  like  this,"  said  Lady  Florimel. 

Malcolm  liked  the  suggestion  the  less 
because  of  its  probability,  believing,  in 
that  case,  he  should  have  arrived  long 
ago.  But  he  took  care  not  to  increase 
Florimel's  alarm. 

By  this  time  Malcolm  knew  the  whole 
of  the  accessible  inside  of  the  roof  well 
— better  far  than  any  one  else  about  the 
house.  From  one  part  to  another,  over 
the  whole  of  it,  he  now  led  Lady  Flori- 
mel. In  the  big-shadowed  glimmer  of 
his  one  candle  all  parts  of  the  garret 
seemed  to  him  frowning  with  knitted 
brows  over  resentful  memories,  as  if  the 
phantom  forms  of  all  the  past  joys  and 
self-renewing  sorrows,  all  the  sins  and 
wrongs,  all  the  disappointments  and  fail- 
ures of  the  house,  had  floated  up,  gen- 
eration after  generation,  into  that  abode 
of  helpless  brooding,  and  there  hung 
hovering  above  the  fast  fleeting  life  be- 
low, which  now,  in  its  turn,  was  ever 
sending  up  like  fumes  from  heart  and 
brain  to  crowd  the  dim,  dreary,  larva- 
haunted,  dream-wallowing  chaos  of  half- 
obliterated  thought  and  feeling.  To 
Florimel  it  looked  a  dread  waste,  a  re- 
gion deserted  and  forgotten,  mysterious 
with  far-reaching  nooks  of  darkness, 
and  now  awful  with  the  wind  raving  and 
howling  over  slates  and  leads  so  close 
to  them  on  all  sides,  as  if  a  flying  armv 
of  demons  were  tearing  at  the  roof  to 
get  in  and  find  covert  from  pursuit. 

At  length  they  approached  Malcolm's 
own  quartei's,  where  they  would  have  to 
pass  the  very  door  of  the  wizard's  cham- 
ber to  reach  a  short  ladder-like  stair  that 
led  up  into  the  midst  of  naked  rafters, 
when,  coming  upon  a  small  storm-win- 
dow near  the  end  of  a  long  passage, 
Lady  Florimel  stopped  and  peeped  out. 


226 


MALCOLM. 


"The  moon  is  rising,"  she  said,  and 
stood  looking. 

Malcolm  glanced  over  her  shoulder. 
Eastward  a  dim  light  shone  up  from  be- 
hind the  crest  of  a  low  hill.  Great  part 
of  the  sky  was  clear,  but  huge  masses 
of  broken  cloud  went  sweeping  across 
the  heavens.     The  wind  had  moderated. 

"Aren't  we  somewhere  near  your  friend 
the  wizard  ?"  said  Lady  Florimel,  with  a 
slight  tremble  in  the  tone  of  mockery 
with  which  she  spoke. 

Malcolm  answered  as  if  he  were  not 
quite  certain. 

"  Isn't  your  own  room  somewhere 
hereabouts?"  asked  the  girl  sharply. 

"We'll  jist  gang  till  ae  ither  queer 
place,"  observed  Malcolm,  pretending 
not  to  have  heard  her,  "and  gien  the 
rufe  be  a'  richt  there,  I  s'  no  bather  my 
heid  mair  aboot  it  till  the  mornin'.  It  's 
but  a  feow  steps  farther,  an'  syne  a  bit 
stair." 

A  fit  of  her  not  unusual  obstinacy  had, 
however,  seized  Lady  Florimel. 

"I  won't  move  a  step,"  she  said,  "un- 
til you  have  told  me  where  the  wizard's 
chamber  is." 

"Ahint  ye,  my  leddy,  gien  ye  wull  hae 
't,"  answered  Malcolm,  not  unwilling  to 
punish  her  a  little — "jist  at  the  far  en'  o' 
the  transe  there." 

In  fact,  the  window  in  which  she  stood 
lighted  the  whole  length  of  the  passage 
from  which  it  opened. 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  sounded  some- 
where as  it  were  the  slam  of  a  heavy 
iron  door,  the  echoes  of  which  seemed 
to  go  searching  into  every  cranny  of  the 
multitudinous  garrets.  Florimel  gave  a 
shriek,  and  laying  hold  of  Malcolm  clung 
to  him  in  terror.  A  sympathetic  tremor, 
set  in  motion  by  her  cry,  went  vibrating 
through  the  fisherman's  powerful  frame, 
and  almost  involuntarily  he  clasped  her 
close.  With  wide  eyes  they  stood  staring 
down  the  long  passage,  of  which,  by  the 
poor  light  they  carried,  they  could  not  see 
a  quarter  of  the  length.  Presently  they 
heard  a  soft  footfall  along  its  floor,  draw- 
ing slowly  nearer  through  the  darkness, 
and  slowly  out  of  the  darkness  grew  the 
figure  of  a  man,  huge  and  dim,  clad  in 
a  long  flowing  garment    and    coming 


straight  on  to  where  they  stood.  They 
clung  yet  closer  together.  The  appari- 
tion came  within  three  yards  of  them, 
and  then  they  recognized  Lord  Lossie  in 
his  dressing-gown. 

They  started  asunder.  Florimel  flew 
to  her  father,  and  Malcolm  stood  expect- 
ing the  last  stroke  of  his  evil  fortune. 
The  marquis  looked  pale,  stern  and 
agitated.  Instead  of  kissing  his  daugh- 
ter on  the  forehead  as  was  his  custom, 
he  put  her  from  him  with  one  expanded 
palm,  but  the  next  moment  drew  her  to 
his  side.  Then  approaching  Malcolm, 
he  lighted  at  his  the  candle  he  carried, 
which  a  draught  had  extinguished  on 
the  way. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  MacPhail,"  he  said, 
and  turned  from  him,  his  arm  still  round 
Lady  Florimel. 

They  walked  away  together  down  the 
long  passage,  vaguely  visible  in  flicker- 
ing fits.  All  at  once  their  light  vanish- 
ed, and  with  it  Malcolm's  eyes  seemed 
to  have  left  him.  But  a  merry  laugh, 
the  silvery  thread  in  which  was  certainly 
Florimel's,  reached  his  ears  and  brought 
him  to  himself. 


CHAPTER    LVI. 
SOMETHING   FORGOTfEN. 

I  WILL  not  trouble  my  reader  with  the 
thoughts  that  kept  rising,  flickering  and 
fading,  one  after  another,  for  two  or  three 
dismal  hours  as  he  lay  with  eyes  closed 
but  sleepless.  At  length  he  opened  them 
wide  and  looked  out  into  the  room.  It 
was  a  bright  moonlit  night ;  the  wind 
had  sunk  to  rest ;  all  the  world  slept  in 
the  exhaustion  of  the  storm.  He  only 
was  awake  ;  he  could  lie  no  longer :  he 
would  go  out,  and  discover,  if  possible, 
the  mischief  the  tempest  had  done. 

He  crept  down  the  little  spiral  stair 
used  only  by  the  servants,  and  knowing 
all  the  mysteries  of  lock  and  bar  was 
presently  in  the  open  air.  First  he 
sought  a  view  of  the  building  against 
the  sky,  but  could  not  see  that  any  por- 
tion was  missing.  He  then  proceeded 
to  walk  round  the  house,  in  order  to  find 
what  had  fallen. 


MALCOLM. 


227 


There  was  a  certain  neglected  spot 
nearly  under  his  own  window,  where  a 
wall  across  an  interior  angle  formed  a 
litde  court  or  yard  :  he  had  once  peeped 
in  at  the  door  of  it,  which  was  always 
half  open,  and  seemed  incapable  of  be- 
ing moved  in  either  direction,  but  had 
seen  nothing  except  a  broken  pail  and 
a  pile  of  brushwood.  The  flat  arch  over 
this  door  was  broken,  and  the  door  itself 
half  buried  in  a  heap  of  blackened  stones 
and  mortar.  Here  was  the  avalanche 
whose  fall  had  so  terrified  the  household. 
The  formless  mass  had  yesterday  been 
a  fair-proportioned  and  ornate  stack  of 
chimneys. 

He  scrambled  to  the  top  of  the  heap, 
and  sitting  down  on  a  stone  carved  with 
a  plaited  Celtic  band,  yet  again  he  fell 
a-thinking.  The  marquis  must  dismiss 
him  in  the  morning  :  would  it  not  be  bet- 
ter to  go  away  now,  and  spare  poor  old 
Duncan  a  terrible  fit  of  rage  ?  He  would 
suppose  he  had  fled  from  the  pseudo- 
maternal  net  of  Mrs.  Stewart,  and  not 
till  he  had  found  a  place  to  which  he 
could  welcome  him  would  he  tell  him 
the  truth.  But  his  nature  recoiled  both 
from  the  unmanliness  of  such  a  flight 
and  from  the  appearance  of  conscious 
wrong  it  must  involve,  and  he  dismissed 
the  notion.  Scheme  after  scheme  for  the 
future  passed  through  his  head,  and  still 
he  sat  on  the  heap  in  the  light  of  the 
high-gliding  moon,  like  a  ghost  on  the 
ruins  of  his  earthly  home,  and  his  eyes 
went  listlessly  straying  like  servants  with- 
out a  master.  Suddenly  he  found  them 
occupied  with  a  low  iron-studded  door 
in  the  wall  of  the  house  which  he  had 
never  seen  before.  He  descended,  and 
found  it  hardly  closed,  for  there  was  no 
notch  to  receive  the  heavy  latch.  Push- 
ing it  open  on  great  rusty  hinges,  he  saw 
within  what  in  the  shadow  appeared  a 
precipitous  descent.  His  curiosity  was 
roused :  he  stole  back  to  his  room  and 
fetched  his  candle,  and  having,  by  the 
aid  of  his  tinder-box,  lighted  it  in  the 
shelter  of  the  heap,  peeped  again  through 
the  doorway,  and  saw  what  seemed  a 
narrow  cylindrical  pit,  only,  far  from 
showing  a  great  yawning  depth,  it  was 
filled  with  stones  and  rubbish  nearly  to 


the  bottom  of  the  door.  The  top  of  the 
door  reached  almost  to  the  vaulted  roof, 
one  part  of  which,  close  to  the  inner  side 
of  the  circular  wall,  was  broken.  Below 
this  breach  fragments  of  stone  projected 
from  the  wall,  suggesting  the  remnants 
of  a  stair.  With  the  sight  came  a  fore- 
sight of  discovery. 

One  foot  on  the  end  of  a  long  stone 
sticking  vertically  from  the  rubbish,  and 
another  on  one  of  the  stones  projecting 
from  the  wall,  his  head  was  already 
through  the  break  in  the  roof,  and  in  a 
minute  more  he  was  climbing  a  small, 
broken,  but  quite  passable  spiral  stair- 
case, almost  a  counterpart  of  that  already 
described  as  going  like  a  huge  auger-bore 
through  the  house  from  top  to  bottom — 
that  indeed  by  which  he  had  just  de- 
scended. There  was  most  likely  more 
of  it  buried  below,  probably  communi- 
cating with  an  outlet  in  some  part  of  the 
rock  toward  the  burn,  but  the  portion  of 
it  which,  from  long  neglect,  had  gradu- 
ally given  way  had  fallen  down  the  shaft, 
and  cut  off  the  rest  with  its  ruins. 

At  the  height  of  a  story  he  came  upon 
a  built-up  doorway,  and  again,  at  a  sim- 
ilar height,  upon  another,  but  the  parts 
filled  in  looked  almost  as  old  as  the  rest 
of  the  wall.  Not  until  he  reached  the 
top  of  the  stair  did  he  find  a  door.  It 
was  iron-studded  and  heavily  hinged, 
like  that  below.  It  opened  outward — 
noiselessly  he  found,  as  if  its  hinges  had 
been  recently  oiled — and  admitted  him 
to  a  small  closet,  the  second  door  of 
which  he  opened  hurriedly  with  a  beat- 
ing heart.  Yes ;  there  was  the  check- 
curtained  bed :  it  must  be  the  wizard's 
chamber !  Crossing  to  another  door,  he 
found  it  both  locked  and  further  secured 
by  a  large  iron  bolt  in  a  strong  staple. 
This  latter  he  drew  back,  but  there  was 
no  key  in  the  lock.  With  scarce  a  doubt 
remaining,  he  shot  down  the  one  stair 
and  flew  up  the  other  to  try  the  key  that 
lay  in  his  chest.  One  moment  and  he 
stood  in  the  same  room,  admitted  by  the 
door  ne.Kt  his  own. 

Some  exposure  was  surely  not  far  off". 
Anyhow,  here  was  room  for  counterplot 
on  the  chance  of  baffling  something  un- 
derhand— villainy  most  likely  where  Mrs.. 


!28 


MALCOLM. 


Catanach  was  concerned.  And  yet,  with 
the  control  of  it  thus  apparently  given 
into  his  hands,  he  must  depart,  leaving 
the  house  at  the  mercy  of  a  low  woman, 
for  the  lock  of  the  wizard's  door  would 
not  exclude  her  long  if  she  wished  to  en- 
ter and  range  the  building.  He  would 
not  go,  however,  without  revealing  all  to 
the  marquis,  and  would  at  once  make 
some  provision  toward  her  discomfiture. 

Going  to  the  forge,  and  bringing  thence 
a  long  bar  of  iron  to  use  as  a  lever,  he 
carefully  drew  from  the  door-frame  the 
staple  of  the  bolt,  and  then  replaced  it 
so  that  while  it  looked  just  as  before,  a 
good  push  would  now  send  it  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Lastly,  he  slid  the 
bolt  into  it,  and  having  carefully  removed 
all  traces  of  disturbance,  left  the  mysteri- 
ous chamber  by  its  own  stair,  and  once 
more  ascending  to  the  passage,  locked 
the  door  and  retired  to  his  room  with  the 
key. 

He  had  now  plenty  to  think  about  be- 
yond himself.  Here  certainly  was  some 
small  support  to  the  legend  of  the  wizard 
earl.  The  stair  which  he  had  discovered 
had  been  in  common  use  at  one  time : 
its  connection  with  other  parts  of  the 
house  had  been  cut  off  with  an  object, 
and  by  degrees  it  had  come  to  be  for- 
gotten altogether  :  many  villainies  might 
have  been  effected  by  means  of  it.  Mrs. 
Catanach  must  have  discovered  it  the 
same  night  on  which  he  found  her  there, 
had  gone  away  by  it  then,  and  had  cer- 
tainly been  making  use  of  it  since.  When 
he  smelt  the  sulphur  she  must  have  been 
lighting  a  match. 

It  was  now  getting  toward  morning, 
and  at  last  he  was  tired.  He  went  to 
bed  and  fell  asleep.  When  he  woke  it 
was  late,  and  as  he  dressed  he  heard  the 
noise  of  hoofs  and  wheels  in  the  stable- 
yard.  He  was  sitting  at  his  breakfast  in 
Mrs.  Courthope's  room  when  she  came 
in  full  of  surprise  at  the  sudden  depart- 
ure of  her  lord  and  lady.  The  marquis 
had  rung  for  his  man,  and  Lady  Flori- 
mel  for  her  maid,  as  soon  as  it  was 
light ;  orders  were  sent  at  once  to  the 
stable  ;  four  horses  were  put  to  the  trav- 
eling carriage;  and  they  were  gone,  Mrs. 
Courthope  could  not  tell  whither. 


Dreary  as  was  the  house  without  Flo- 
rimel,  things  had  turned  out  a  shade  or 
two  better  than  Malcolm  had  expected, 
and  he  braced  himself  to  endure  his  loss. 


CHAPTER   LVII. 

THE    LAIRU'S    QUEST. 

Things  were  going  pretty  well  with 
the  laird  :  Phemy  and  he  drew  yet  closer 
to  each  other,  and  as  he  became  yet 
more  peaceful  in  her  company,  his 
thoughts  flowed  more  freely  and  his  ut- 
terance grew  less  embarrassed,  until  at 
length,  in  talking  with  her,  his  speech 
was  rarely  broken  with  even  a  slight 
impediment,  and  a  stranger  might  have 
overheard  a  long  conversation  between 
them  without  coming  to  any  more  dis- 
paraging conclusion  in  regard  to  him 
than  that  the  hunchback  was  peculiar 
in  mind  as  well  as  in  body.  But  his 
nocturnal  excursions  continuing  to  cAuse 
her  apprehension,  and  his  representations 
of  the  delights  to  be  gathered  from  Na- 
ture while  she  slept  at  the  same  time  al- 
luring her  greatly,  Phemy  had  become, 
both  for  her  own  pleasure  and  his  pro- 
tection, anxious  in  these  also  to  be  his 
companion. 

With  a  vital  recognition  of  law,  and 
great  loyalty  to  any  utterance  of  either 
parent,  she  had  yet  been  brought  up  in 
an  atmosphere  of  such  liberty  that  ex- 
cept a  thing  were  expressly  so  condition- 
ed, or  in  itself  appeared  questionable, 
she  never  dreamed  of  asking  permission 
to  do  it;  and,  accustomed  as  she  had 
been  to  go  with  the  laird  everywhere, 
and  to  be  out  with  him  early  and  late, 
her  conscience  never  suggested  the  pos- 
sibility of  any  objection  to  her  getting 
up  at  twelve,  instead  of  four  or  five,  to 
accompany  him.  It  was  some  time, 
however,  before  the  laird  himself  would 
consent ;  and  then  he  would  not  unfre- 
qucntly  interpose  with  limitations,  espe- 
cially if  the  night  were  not  mild  and  dry, 
sending  her  always  home  again  to  bed. 
The  mutual  rule  and  obedience  between 
them  was  something  at  once  strange  and 
lovely. 

At  midnight  Phemy  would  enter  the 


MALCOLM. 


229 


shop  and  grope  her  way  until  she  stood 
under  the  trap-door.  This  was  the  near- 
est she  could  come  to  the  laird's  cham- 
ber, for  he  had  not  only  declined  having 
the  ladder  stand  there  for  his  use,  but 
had  drawn  a  solemn  promise  from  the 
carpenter  that  at  night  it  should  always 
be  left  slung  up  to  the  joists.  For  him- 
self he  had  made  a  rope-ladder,  which 
he  could  lower  from  beneath  when  he 
required  it,  invariably  drew  up  after  him, 
and  never  used  for  coming  down. 

One  night  Phemy  made  her  customary 
signal  by  knocking  against  the  trap-door 
with  a  long  slip  of  wood  :  it  opened,  and, 
as  usual,  the  body  of  the  laird  appeared 
hung  for  a  moment  in  the  square  gap, 
like  a  huge  spider,  by  its  two  hands,  one 
on  each  side,  then  dropped  straight  to  the 
floor,  when  without  a  word  he  hastened 
forth,  and  Phemy  followed. 

The  night  was  very  still,  and  rather 
dark,  for  it  was  cloudy  about  the  horizon 
and  there  was  no  moon.  Hand  in  hand 
the  two  made  for  the  shore,  here  very 
rocky — a  succession  of  promontories  with 
little  coves  between.  Down  into  one  of 
these  they  went  by  a  winding  path,  and 
stood  at  the  lip  of  the  sea.  A  violet  dim- 
ness— or  rather  a  semi-transparent  dark- 
ness— hung  over  it,  through  which  came 
now  and  then  a  gleam  where  the  slow 
heave  of  some  Triton  shoulder  caught  a 
shine  of  the  sky  :  a  hush  also,  as  of  sleep, 
hung  over  it,  which  not  to  break  the 
wavelets  of  the  rising  tide  carefully  still- 
ed their  noises;  and  the  dimness  and 
the  hush  seemed  one.  They  sat  down 
on  a  rock  that  rose  but  a  foot  or  two  from 
the  sand,  and  for  some  moments  listen- 
ed in  silence  to  the  inarticulate  story  of 
the  night. 

At  length  the  laird  turned  to  Phemy, 
and  taking  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of 
his  very  solemnly  said,  as  if  breaking  to 
her  his  life's  trouble,  "Phemy,  I  dinna 
ken  whaur  I  cam  frae." 

"  Hoot,  laird !  ye  ken  weel  eneuch  ye 
cam  frae  Go-od,"  answered  Phemy, 
lengthening  out  the  word  with  solemn 
utterance. 

The  laird  did  not  reply,  and  again  the 
night  closed  around  them  and  the  sea 
hushed  at  dieir  hearts.    But  a  soft  light  air 


began  to  breathe  from  the  south,  and  it 
waked  the  laird  to  more  active  thought. 
"Gien  He  wad  but  come  oot  an'  shaw 
himsel'  !"  he  said.  "What  for  disna  He 
come  oot?" 

"Wha  wad  ye  hae  come  oot  ?"  asked 
Phemy. 

"  Ye  ken  wha,  weel  eneuch.  They  say 
He  's  a'  gait  at  ance :  jist  hearken. 
What  for  will  He  aye  bide  in,  an'  never 
come  oot  an'  lat  a  puir  body  see  Him  ?" 

The  speech  was  broken  into  pauses, 
filled  by  the  hush  rather  than  noise  of 
the  tide,  and  the  odor-like  wandering  of 
the  soft  air  in  the  convolutions  of  their 
ears. 

"The  lown  win'  maun  be  his  breath 
— sae  quaiet !  He  's  no  hurryin'  himsel' 
the  nicht.  There  's  never  naebody  rins 
efter  Him. — Eh,  Phemy !  I  jist  thoucht 
He  was  gauin'  to  speyk." 

This  last  exclamation  he  uttered  in  a 
whisper  as  the  louder  gush  of  a  larger 
tide-pulse  died  away  on  the  shore. 

"Luik,  Phemy,  luik!"  he  resumed. 
"Luik  oot  yonner.  Dinna  ye  see  some- 
thing 'at  micht  grow  to  something?" 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  faint  spot  of 
steely  blue  out  on  the  sea,  not  far  from 
the  horizon.  It  was  hard  to  account  for, 
with  such  a  sky  overhead,  wherein  was 
no  lighter  part  to  be  seen  that  might  be 
reflected  in  the  water  below  ;  but  neither 
of  the  beholders  was  troubled  about  its 
cause  :  there  it  glimmered  on  in  the  dim- 
ness of  the  wide  night  —  a  cold,  faint 
splash  of  blue-gray. 

"I  dinna  think  muckle  o'  that,  sir," 
said  Phemy. 

"  It  micht  be  the  mark  o'  the  sole  o' 
his  fut,  though,"  returned  the  laird.  "  He 
micht  hae  jist  setten  't  doon,  an'  the  wai- 
ter hae  lowed  [JIamed)  up  aboot  it,  an' 
the  low  no  be  willin'  to  gang  oot.  Luik 
sharp,  Phemy !  there  may  come  anither 
at  the  neist  stride  —  anither  futmark. 
Luik  ye  that  gait  an'  I'll  luik  this.  What 
for  willna  He  come  oot  ?  The  lift  maun 
be  fu'  o'  Him,  an'  I'm  hungert  for  a  sicht 
o'  Him.  Gien  ye  see  onything,  Phemy, 
cry  oot." 

"What  will  I  cry?"  asked  Phemy. 

"  Cry  '  Father  o'  lichts  !'  "  answered 
the  laird. 


23° 


MALCOLM. 


"Will  He  hear  to  that,  div  ye  think, 
sir  ?" 

"Whakens?  He  micht  jist  turn  his 
heid,  an'  ae  luik  wad  sair  me  for  a  hun- 
ner  year." 

"  I  s'  cry  gien  I  see  onything,"  said 
Phemy. 

As  they  sat  watching,  by  degrees  the 
laird's  thoughts  swerved  a  little.  His 
gaze  had  fixed  on  the  northern  horizon, 
where,  as  if  on  the  outer  threshold  of 
some  mighty  door,  long  low  clouds,  with 
varied  suggestion  of  recumbent  animal 
forms,  had  stretched  themselves,  like 
creatures  of  the  chase  watching  for  their 
lord  to  issue. 

"  Maybe  He's  no  oot  o'  the  hoose  yet," 
he  said.  "Surely  it  canna  be  but  He 
comes  oot  ilka  nicht.  He  wad  never 
hae  made  sic  a  sicht  o'  bonny  things  to 
lat  them  lie  wi'oot  onybody  to  gaither 
them.  An'  there's  nae  ill  fowk  the  furth 
at  this  time  o'  nicht  to  mak  an  oogly  din 
or  disturb  Him  wi'  the  sicht  o'  them.  He 
maun  come  oot  i'  the  quaiet  o'  the  nicht, 
or  else  what's  't  a'  for  ?  Ay,  He  keeps 
the  nicht  till  himsel',  an'  lea's  the  day 
to  hiz  {us).  That'll  be  what  the  deep 
sleep  fa's  upo'  men  for,  doobtless  —  to 
haud  them  oot  o'  his  gait.  Eh !  I  wuss 
He  wad  come  oot  whan  I  was  by.  I 
micht  get  a  glimpo'  Him.  Maybe  He 
wad  tak  the  hump  aff  o'  me,  and  set 
things  in  order  i'  my  heid,  an'  make  me 
like  ither  fowk.  Eh  me !  that  wad  be 
gran' !  Naebody  wad  daur  to  touch  me 
syne.  Eh,  Michty  !  come  oot!  Father 
o'  lichts  !  Father  o'  lichts  !" 

He  went  on  repeating  the  words  till, 
growing  softer  and  softer,  his  voice  died 
away  in  silence,  and  still  as  his  seat  of 
stone  he  sat,  a  new  Job,  on  the  verge  of 
the  world-waters,  like  the  old  Job  on  his 
dunghill  when  he  cried  out,  "Lo,  He 
goeth  by  me,  and  I  see  Him  not;  He 
passcth  on  also,  but  I  perceive  Him  not. 
Call  Thou,  and  I  will  answer ;  or  let  me 
speak,  and  answer  Thou  me.  Oh  that  I 
knew  where  I  might  find  Him  !  that  I 
might  come  even  to  his  seat !  Behold  I 
go  forward,  but  He  is  not  there ;  and 
backward,  but  I  cannot  perceive  Him  : 
on  the  left  hand,  where  He  doth  work, 
but  I   cannot  behold   Him ;    He   hidcth 


himself  on  the  right  hand,  that  I  cannot 
see  Him." 

At  length  he  rose  and  wandered  away 
from  the  shore,  his  head  sunk  upon  his 
chest.  Phemy  rose  also,  and  followed 
him  in  silence.  The  child  had  little  of 
the  poetic  element  in  her  nature,  but  she 
had  much  of  that  from  which  everything 
else  has  to  be  developed — heart.  When 
they  reached  the  top  of  the  brae  she  join- 
ed him,  and  said,  putting  her  hand  in  his, 
but  not  looking  at  or  even  turning  toward 
him,  "Maybe  He'll  come  oot  upo'  ye 
afore  ye  ken  some  day — whan  ye're  no 
luikin'  for  Him." 

The  laird  stopped,  gazed  at  her  for 
a  moment,  shook  his  head  and  walked 
on. 

Grassy  steeps  everywhere  met  the 
stones  and  sands  of  the  shore,  and  the 
grass  and  the  sand  melted,  as  it  were, 
and  vanished  each  in  the  other.  Just 
where  they  met  in  the  next  hollow  stood 
a  small  building  of  stone  with  a  tiled 
roof.  It  was  now  strangely  visible  through 
the  darkness,  for  from  every  crevice  a 
fire-illumined  smoke  was  pouring.  But 
the  companions  were  not  alarmed,  or 
even  surprised.  They  bent  their  way 
toward  it  without  hastening  a  step,  and 
coming  to  a  fence  that  enclosed  a  space 
around  it,  opened  a  little  gate  and  pass- 
ed through.  A  sleepy  watchman  chal- 
lenged them. 

"  It's  me,"  said  the  laird. 

"A  fine  nicht,  laird,"  returned  the 
voice,  and  said  no  more. 

The  building  was  divided  into  several 
compartments,  each  with  a  separate  en- 
trance. On  the  ground  in  each  burned 
four  or  five  little  wood  fires,  and  the 
place  was  filled  with  smoke  and  glow. 
The  smoke  escaped  partly  by  openings 
above  the  doors,  but  mostly  by  the  cran- 
nies of  the  tiled  roof.  Ere  it  reached 
these,  however,  it  had  to  pass  through 
a  great  multitude  of  pendent  herrings. 
Hung  up  by  the  gills,  layer  above  layer, 
nearly  to  the  roof,  their  last  tails  came 
down  as  low  as  the  laird's  head.  From 
beneath  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  a 
firmament  of  herring-tails.  These  fish 
were  the  last  of  the  season,  and  were 
thus  undergoing  the  process  of  kipper- 


MALCOLM. 


231 


ing.  It  was  a  new  venture  in  the  place, 
and  its  success  as  yet  a  question. 

The  laird  went  into  one  of  the  com- 
partments, and  searching  about  a  little 
amongst  the  multitude  within  his  reach, 
took  down  a  plump  one,  then  cleared 
away  the  blazing  wood  from  the  top  of 
one  of  the  fires,  and  laid  his  choice  upon 
the  glowing  embers  beneath. 

"What  are  ye  duin'  there,  laird?" 
cried  Phemy  from  without,  whose  nos- 
trils the  resulting  odor  had  quickly 
reached.     "  The  fish  is  no  yours." 

"Ye  dinna  think  I  wad  tak  it  want- 
in'  leave,  Phemy  ?"  returned  the  laird. 
"Mony  a  supper  hae  I  made  this  w'y,  an' 
mony  anither  I  houp  to  mak.  It'll  no 
be  this  sizzon,  though,  for  this  lot  's  the 
last  o'  them.  They're  fine  aitin',  but  I'm 
some  feart  they  winna  keep." 

"Wha  gae  ye  leave,  sir?"  {>ersisted 
Phemy,  showing  herself  the  indivertible 
guardian  of  his  morals  as  well  as  of  his 
freedom. 

"Ow,  Mr.  Runcie  himsel',  of  coorse," 
answered  the  laird.  "WuU  I  pit  ane  on 
to  you  ?" 

"  Did  ye  speir  leave  for  me  tu?"  asked 
the  righteous  maiden. 

"Ow,  na,  but  I'll  tell  him  the  neist 
time  I  see  him." 

"I'm  nae  for  ony,"  said  Phemy. 

The  fish  wanted  little  cooking.  The 
laird  turned  it,  and  after  another  half 
minute  of  the  fire  took  it  up  by  the  tail, 
sat  down  on  a  stone  beside  the  door, 
spread  a  piece  of  paper  on  his  knees, 
laid  the  fish  upon  it,  pulled  a  lump  of 
bread  from  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  to 
make  his  supper.  Ere  he  began,  how- 
ever, he  gazed  all  around  with  a  look 
which  Phemy  interpreted  as  a  renewed 
search  for  the  Father  of  lights,  whom  he 
would  fain  thank  for  his  gifts.  When  he 
had  finished  he  threw  the  remnants  into 
one  of  the  fires,  then  went  down  to  the 
sea,  and  there  washed  his  face  and  hands 
in  a  rock-pool,  after  which  they  set  off 
again,  straying  yet  farther  along  the 
coast. 

One  of  the  peculiarities  in  the  friend- 
ship of  the  strange  couple  was  that,  al- 
though so  closely  attached,  they  should 
maintain  such  a  large  amount  of  mu- 


tual independence.  They  never  quarrel- 
ed, but  would  flatly  disagree,  with  never 
an  attempt  at  compromise :  the  whole 
space  between  midnight  and  morning 
would  sometimes  glide  by  without  a  word 
spoken  between  them,  and  the  one  or 
the  other  would  often  be  lingering  far 
behind.  As,  however,  the  ultimate  goal 
of  the  night's  wandering  was  always  un- 
derstood between  them,  there  was  little 
danger  of  their  losing  each  other. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  laird,  still 
full  of  his  quest,  was  the  one  who  linger- 
ed. Every  few  minutes  he  would  stop 
and  stare,  now  all  around  the  horizon, 
now  up  to  the  zenith,  now  over  the  wastes 
of  sky,  for  any  moment,  from  any  spot 
in  heaven,  earth  or  sea,  the  Father  of 
lights  might  show  foot  or  hand  or  face. 
He  had  at  length  seated  himself  on  a 
lichen-covered  stone  with  his  head  buried 
in  his  hands,  as  if,  wearied  with  vain 
search  for  Him  outside,  he  would  now 
look  within  and  see  if  God  might  not  be 
there,  when  suddenly  a  sharp  exclama- 
tion from  Phemy  reached  him.  He  lis- 
tened. 

"Rin  !  rin  !  rin  !"  she  cried,  the  last  word 
prolonged  into  a  scream. 

While  it  yet  rang  in  his  ears  the  laird 
was  halfway  down  the  steep.  In  the 
open  country  he  had  not  a  chance,  but 
knowing  every  cranny  in  the  rocks  large 
enough  to  hide  him,  with  anything  like 
a  start  near  enough  to  the  shore  for  his 
short-lived  speed  he  was  all  but  certain 
to  evade  his  pursuers,  especially  in  such 
a  dark  night  as  this. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  anxious  about 
Phemy,  never  imagining  she  might  be 
less  sacred  in  other  eyes  than  in  his,  and 
knowing  neither  that  her  last  cry  of  lov- 
ing solicitude  had  gathered  intensity  from 
a  cruel  grasp,  nor  that  while  he  fled  in 
safety  she  remained  a  captive. 

Trembling  and  panting  like  a  hare  just 
escaped  from  the  hounds,  he  squeezed 
himself  into  a  cleft,  where  he  sat  half 
covered  with  water  until  the  morning  be- 
gan to  break.  Then  he  drew  himself 
out  and  crept  along  the  shore,  from  point 
to  point,  with  keen  circumspection,  until 
he  was  right  under  the  village  and  with 
in  hearing  of  its  inhabitants,  when  he 


232 


MALCOLM. 


ascended  hurriedly  and  ran  home.  But 
having  reached  his  burrow,  pulled  down 
his  rope-ladder  and  ascended,  he  found 
with  trebled  dismay  that  his  loft  had 
been  invaded  during  the  night.  Several 
of  the  hooked  cords  had  been  cut  away, 
on  one  or  two  were  shreds  of  clothing, 
and  on  the  window-sill  was  a  drop  of 
blood. 

He  threw  himself  on  the  mound  for  a 
moment,  then  started  to  his  feet,  caught 
up  his  plaid,  tumbled  from  the  loft,  and 
fled  from  Scaurnose  as  if  a  visible  pesti- 
lence had  been  behind  him. 


CHAPTER    LVIII. 
MALCOLM   AND   MRS.    STEWART. 

When  her  parents  discovered  that 
Pliemy  was  not  in  her  garret,  it  occa- 
sioned them  no  anxiety.  When  they 
had  also  discovered  that  neither  was  the 
laird  in  his  loft,  and  were  naturally  seized 
with  the  dread  that  some  evil  had  be- 
fallen him,  his  hitherto  invariable  habit 
having  been  to  house  himself  with  the 
first  gleam  of  returning  day,  they  sup- 
posed that  Phemy,  finding  he  had  not 
returned,  had  set  out  to  look  for  him. 
As  the  day  wore  on,  however,  without 
her  appearing,  they  began  to  be  a  little 
uneasy  about  her  as  well.  Still,  the  two 
might  be  together,  and  the  explanation 
of  their  absence  a  very  simple  and  satis- 
factory one :  for  a  time,  therefore,  they 
refused  to  admit  importunate  disquiet. 
But  before  night  anxiety,  like  the  slow 
but  persistent  waters  of  a  flood,  had  in- 
sinuated itself  through  their  whole  being 
— nor  theirs  alone,  but  had  so  mastered 
and  possessed  the  whole  village  that  at 
length  all  employment  was  deserted,  and 
every  person  capable  joined  in  a  search 
along  the  coast,  fearing  to  find  their 
bodies  at  the  foot  of  some  cliff.  The  re- 
port spread  to  the  neighboring  villages. 
In  Portlossie,  Duncan  went  round  with 
his  pipes,  arousing  attention  by  a  brief 
blast,  and  then  crying  the  loss  at  every 
corner.  As  soon  as  Malcolm  heard  of 
it  he  hurried  to  find  Joseph,  but  the  only 
explanation  of  their  absence  he  was  pre- 
pared to  suggest  was  one  that  had  al- 


ready occurred  to  almost  everybody— 
that  the  laird,  namely,  had  been  captured 
by  the  emissaries  of  his  mother,  and  that 
to  provide  against  a  rescue  they  had  car- 
ried off"  his  companion  with  him ;  on 
which  supposition  there  was  every  prob- 
ability that  within  a  few  days  at  farthest 
Phemy  would  be  restored  unhurt. 

"There  can  be  little  doobt  they  hae 
gotten  a  grip  o'  'm  at  last,  puir  fallow  !" 
said  Joseph.  "But  whatever's  come  till 
him,  we  canna  sit  doon  an'  ait  oor  niait 
ohn  kent  hoo  Phemy's  farin",  puir  wee 
lamb  !  Ye  maun  jist  baud  awa'  ower  to 
Kirkbyres,  Ma'colm,  an'  get  word  o'  yer 
mither,  an'  see  gien  onything  can  be 
made  oot  o'  her." 

The  proposal  fell  on  Malcolm  like  a 
great  billow.  "Blue  Peter,"  he  said, 
looking  him  in  the  face,  "  I  took  it  as  a 
mark  o'  yer  freen'ship  'at  ye  never  spak 
the  word  to  me.  What  richt  has  ony 
man  to  ca'  that  wuman  my  mither  ?  / 
hae  never  allooed  it." 

"I'm  thinkin',"  returned  Joseph,  the 
more  easily  nettled  that  his  horizon  also 
was  full  of  trouble,  "your  word  upo'  the 
the  maitter  winna  gang  sae  far  's  John 
o'  Groat's.  Ye'll  no  be  suppeent  ior your 
witness  upo'  the  pint." 

"I  wad  as  sune  gang  a  mile  infill  the 
mou'  o'  hell  as  gang  to  Kirkbyres,"  said 
Malcolm. 

"  I  hae  my  answer,"  said  Peter,  and 
turned  away. 

"But  I  s'  gang,"  Malcolm  went  on. 
"  The  thing  'at  maun  be  can  be.  Only 
I  tell  ye  this,  Peter,"  he  added — "gien 
ever  ye  say  sic  a  word  's  yon  i'  my  hear- 
in'  again — that  is,  afore  the  wuman  has 
priven  hersel'  what  she  says — I  s'  gang 
by  ye  ever  efter  ohn  spoken,  for  I'll  ken 
'at  ye  want  nae  mair  o'  vieT 

Joseph,  who  had  been  standing  with 
his  back  to  his  friend,  turned  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

Malcolm  took  it.  "Aequeston  afore  I 
gang,  Peter,"  he  said.  "What  for  didna 
ye  tell  me  what  fowk  was  sayin'  aboot 
me  anent  Lizzy  Findlay  ?" 

"'Cause  I  didna  believe  a  word  o'  't, 
an'  I  wasna  gacn'  to  add  onything  to  yer 
troubles." 

"  Lizzy  never  mootit  sic  a  thing  ?" 


MALCOLM. 


233 


"Never." 

"  I  was  sure  o'  that.  Noo  I'll  awa'  to 
Kirkbyres.  God  help  me  !  I  wad  raither 
face  Sawtan  an'  his  muckle  tyke !  But 
dinna  ye  expec'  ony  news.  Gien  yon 
ane  kens,  she's  a'  the  surer  no  to  tell. 
Only  ye  sanna  say  I  didna  du  my  best 
for  ye." 

It  was  the  hardest  trial  of  the  will  Mal- 
colm had  yet  had  to  encounter.  Trials 
of  submission  he  had  had,  and  tolerably 
severe  ones,  but  to  go  and  do  what  the 
whole  feeling  recoils  from  is  to  be  weigh- 
ed only  against  abstinence  from  what  the 
whole  feeling  urges  toward.  He  walk- 
ed determinedly  home,  where  Stoat  sad- 
dled a  horse  for  him  while  he  changed 
his  dress,  and  once  more  he  set  out  for 
Kirkbyres. 

Had  Malcolm  been  at  the  time  capa- 
ble of  attempting  an  analysis  of  his  feel- 
ing toward  Mrs.  Stewart,  he  would  have 
found  it  very  difficult  to  effect.  Satisfied 
as  he  was  of  the  untruthful,  even  cruel, 
nature  of  the  woman  who  claimed  him, 
and  conscious  of  a  strong  repugnance  to 
any  nearer  approach  between  them,  he 
was  yet  aware  of  a  certain  indescribable 
fascination  in  her.  This,  however,  only 
caused  him  to  recoil  from  her  the  more, 
partly  from  dread  lest  it  migJit  spring 
from  the  relation  she  asserted,  and  part- 
ly that,  whatever  might  be  its  root,  it 
wrought  upon  him  in  a  manner  he  hard- 
ly disliked  the  less  that  it  certainly  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  filial.  But  his 
feelings  were  too  many  and  too  active  to 
admit  of  the  analysis  of  any  one  of  them, 
and  ere  he  reached  the  house  his  mood 
had  grown  fierce. 

He  was  shown  into  a  room  where  the 
fire  had  not  been  many  minutes  lighted. 
It  had  long,  narrow  windows,  over  which 
the  ivy  had  grown  so  thick  that  he  was 
in  it  some  moments  ere  he  saw  through 
the  dusk  that  it  was  a  library — not  half 
the  size  of  that  at  Lossie  House,  but  far 
more  ancient  and,  although  evidently 
neglected,  more  study-like. 

A  few  minutes  passed,  then  the  door 
softly  opened,  and  Mrs.  Stewart  glided 
swiftly  across  the  floor  with  outstretched 
arms.  "At  last!"  she  said,  and  would 
have  clasped  him  to  her  bosom. 


But  Malcolm  stepped  back.  "Na,  na, 
mem,"  he  said  :  "it  takes  twa  to  that." 

"Malcolm  !"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice 
trembling  with  emotion — of  some  kind. 

"  Ye  may  ca'  me  your  son,  mem,  but 
I  ken  nae  gr'un'  yet  for  ca'in'  you  my — " 
He  could  not  say  the  word. 

"That  is  very  true,  Malcolm,"  she  re- 
turned gently,  "but  this  interview  is  not 
of  my  seeking.  I  wish  to  precipitate 
nothing.  So  long  as  there  is  a  single 
link,  or  half  a  link  even,  missing  from 
the  chain  of  which  one  end  hangs  at  my 
heart — "  She  paused,  with  her  hand  on 
her  bosom,  apparently  to  suppress  rising 
emotion.  Had  she  had  the  sentence 
ready  for  use  ? — "  I  will  not  subject  my- 
.self,"  she  went  on,  "to  such  treatment  as 
it  seems  I  must  look  for  from  you.  It  is 
hard  to  lose  a  son,  but  it  is  harder  yet  to 
find  him  again  after  he  has  utterly  ceased 
to  be  one."  Here  she  put  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes.  "Till  the  matter  is 
settled,  however,"  she  resumed,  "let  us 
be  friends  —  or  at  least  not  enemies. 
What  did  you  come  for  now  ? — not  to  in- 
sult me,  surely  ?  Is  there  anything  I  can 
do  for  you  ?' ' 

Malcolm  felt  the  dignity  of  her  be- 
havior, but  not  the  less,  after  his  own 
straightfonvard  manner,  answered  her 
question  to  the  point :  "  I  cam  aboot 
naething  concernin'  mysel',  mem.  I  cam 
to  see  whether  ye  kent  onything  aboot 
Phemy  Mair." 

"Is  it  a  wo — ?  I  don't  even  know 
who  she  is.  You  don't  mean  the  young 
woman  that — ?  Why  do  you  come  to 
me  about  her  ?     Who  is  she  ?" 

Malcolm  hesitated  a  moment :  if  she 
really  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  was 
there  any  risk  in  telling  her?  But  he 
saw  none.  "  Wha  is  she,  mem  ?"  he  re- 
turned. "  I  whiles  think  she  maun  be 
the'  laird's  guid  angel,  though  in  shape 
she's  but  a  wee  bit  lassie.  She  maks  up 
for  a  heap  to  the  laird.  Him  an'  her, 
mem,  they've  disappeart  thegither,  nae- 
body  kens  whaur." 

Mrs.  Stewart  laughed  a  low,  unpleas- 
ant laugh,  but  made  no  other  reply. 

Malcolm  went  on:  "An'  it's  no  to  be 
wonnert  at  gien  fowk  wull  hae  't  'at  ye 
maun  ken  something  aboot  it,  mem." 


234 


MALCOLM. 


"  I  know  nothing  whatever,"  she  re- 
turned emphatically.  "  Believe  me  or 
not,  as  you  please,"  she  added  with 
heightened  color.  "  If  I  did  know  any- 
thing," she  went  on,  with  apparent  truth- 
fulness, "  I  don't  know  that  I  should  feel 
bound  to  tell  it.  As  it  is,  however,  I  can 
only  say  I  know  nothing  of  either  of 
them.     That  I  do  say  most  solemnly." 

Malcolm  turned,  satisfied  at  least  that 
he  could  learn  no  more. 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  me  so?" 
the  lady  said,  and  her  face  grew  "sad  as 
sad  could  be." 

"There's  naething  mair  atween  's, 
mem,"  answered  Malcolm  without  turn- 
ing even  his  face. 

"You  will  be  sorry  for  treating  me  so 
some  day." 

"Weel,  than,  mem,  I  will  be,  but  that 
day's  no  the  day  {/o-daj)." 

"Think  what  you  could  do  for  your 
poor  witless  brother  if — " 

"Mem,"  interrupted  Malcolm,  turning 
right  round  and  drawing  himself  up  in 
anger,  "pruv'  'at  I  'm  your  son,  an'  that 
meenute  I  speir  at  you  wha  was  my 
father." 

Mrs.  Stewart  changed  color — neither 
with  the  blush  of  innocence  nor  with  the 
pallor  of  guilt,  but  with  the  gray  of  min- 
gled rage  and  hatred.  She  took  a  step 
forward  with  the  quick  movement  of  a 
snake  about  to  strike,  but  stopped  mid- 
way and  stood  looking  at  him  with  glit- 
tering eyes,  teeth  clenched  and  lips  half 
open. 

Malcolm  returned  her  gaze  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two.  "  Vi.'  never  was  the  mither, 
whaever  was  the  father  o'  me,"  he  said, 
and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

He  had  scarcely  reached  the  door 
when  he  heard  a  heavy  fall,  and  look- 
ing round  saw  the  lady  lying  motionless 
on  the  floor.  Thoroughly  on  his  guard, 
however,  and  fearful  both  of  her  hatred 
and  her  blandishments,  he  only  made 
the  more  haste  down  stairs,  where  he 
found  a  maid  and  sent  her  to  attend  o 
her  mistress.  In  a  minute  he  was  mount- 
ed and  trotting  fast  home,  considerably 
happier  than  before,  inasmuch  as  he  was 
now  almost  beyond  doubt  convinced  that 
Mrs.  Stewart  was  not  his  mother. 


CHAPTER    LIX. 
AN    HONEST    PLOT. 

Ever  since  the  visit  of  condolence 
with  which  the  narrative  of  these  events 
opened  there  had  been  a  coolness  be- 
tween Mrs.  Mellis  and  Miss  Horn.  Mr. 
Mellis's  shop  was  directly  opposite  Miss 
Horn's  house,  and  his  wife's  parlor  was 
over  the  shop,  looking  into  the  street ; 
hence  the  two  neighbors  could  not  but 
see  each  other  pretty  often :  beyond  a 
stiff  nod,  however,  no  sign  of  smoulder- 
ing friendship  had  as  yet  broken  out. 
Miss  Horn  was  consequently  a  good  deal 
surprised  when,  having  gone  into  the 
shop  to  buy  some  trifle,  Mr.  Mellis  in- 
formed her  in  all  but  a  whisper  that  his 
wife  was  very  anxious  to  see  her  alone 
for  a  moment,  and  begged  her  to  have 
the  goodness  to  step  up  to  the  parlor. 
His  customer  gave  a  small  snort,  betray- 
ing her  first  impulse  to  resentment,  but 
her  nobler  nature,  which  was  never  far 
from  the  surface,  constrained  her  com- 
pliance. 

Mrs.  Mellis  rose  hurriedly  when  the 
plumb-line  figure  of  her  neighbor  appear- 
ed, ushered  in  by  her  husband,  and  re- 
ceived her  with  a  somewhat  embarrassed 
empressevicnt,  arising  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  good-will,  disturbed  by  the  fear 
of  imputed  meddlesomeness.  She  knew 
the  inward  justice  of  Miss  Horn,  how- 
ever, and  relied  upon  that,  even  while 
she  encouraged  herself  by  waking  up 
the  ever-present  conviction  of  her  own 
great  superiority  in  the  petite  morale  of 
social  intercourse.  Her  general  tenden- 
cy, indeed,  was  to  look  down  upon  Miss 
Horn  :  is  it  not  usually  the  less  that  looks 
down  on  the  greater  ?  I  had  almost  said 
it  must  be,  for  that  the  less  only  can  look 
down  ;  but  that  would  not  hold  absolute- 
ly in  the  kingdoms  of  this  world,  while 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  it  is  all  look- 
ing up. 

"Sit  ye  doon.  Miss  Horn,"  she  said: 
"  it  's  a  lang  time  sin'  we  had  a  news  the- 
gither." 

Miss  Horn  seated  herself  with  a  be- 
grudged acquiescence. 

Had  Mrs.  Mellis  been  more  of  a  tac- 
tician, she  would  have  dug  a  few  ap- 
proaches ere  she  opened  fire  upon  the 


MALCOLM. 


235 


fortress  of  her  companion's  fair-hearing; 
but  instead  of  that  she  at  once  discharged 
the  imprudent  question:  "Was  ye  at 
hame  last  nicht,  mem,  atween  the  hoors 
o'  aucht  an'  nine  ?" 

A  shot  which  instantly  awoke  in  reply 
the  whole  battery  of  Miss  Horn's  indig- 
nation :  "  Wha  am  I,  to  be  speirt  sic  a 
queston  ?  Wha  but  yersel'  wad  hae  daurt 
it,  Mistress  Mellis  ?" 

"Huly  [softly),  huly.  Miss  Horn!"  ex- 
postulated her  questioner.  "  I  hae  no 
wuss  to  pry  intill  ony  secrets  o*  yours, 
or — " 

"Secrets!"  shouted  Miss  Horn. 

But  her  consciousness  of  good  intent 
and  all  but  assurance  of  final  victory  up- 
held Mrs.  Mellis.  " — or  Jean's  aither," 
she  went  on,  apparently  regardless  ;  "but 
I  wad  fain  be  sure  ye  kent  a'  aboot  yer 
ain  hoose  'at  a  body  micht  chance  to  see 
frae  the  croon  o'  the  caus'ay  [middle  of 
the  street)." 

"  The  parlor-blind  's  gane  up  crookit 
sin'  ever  that  thoomb- fingered  cratur, 
Watty  Witherspail,  made  a  new  roller 
till  't.  Gien  't  be  that  ye  mean,  Mistress 
Mellis — " 

"  Hoots  !"  returned  the  other.  "  Hoo 
far  can  ye  lippen  to  that  Jean  o'  yours, 
mem  ?" 

"Nae  far'er  nor  the  len'th  o'  my  nose 
an'  the  breid  o'  my  twa  een,"  was  the 
scornful  answer. 

Although,  however,  she  thus  manifest- 
ed her  resentment  of  Mrs.  Mellis's  cate- 
chetical attempts  at  introducing  her  sub- 
ject, Miss  Horn  had  no  desire  to  prevent 
the  free  outcome  of  her  approaching 
communication. 

"  In  that  case,  I  may  speyk  oot,"  said 
Mrs.  MelHs. 

"Use  yer  freedom." 

"Weel,  I  wuU.  Ye  was  hardly  oot  o' 
the  hoose  last  nicht  afore — " 

"Ye  saw  me  gang  oot?" 

"Ay,  did  I." 

"  What  gart  ye  speir,  than  ?  What  for 
sud  a  body  come  screwin'  up  a  straucht 
stair — noo  the  face  an'  noo  the  back  o* 
her?" 

"Weel,  I  nott  [needed)  na  hae  speirt. 
But  that's  naething  to  the  p'int.  Ye 
hadna  been  gane,  as  I  was  sayin',  ower 


a  five  meenutes  whan  in  cam  a  licht 
intill  the  bedroom  neist  the  parlor,  an' 
Jean  appeart  wi'  a  can'le  in  her  han'. 
There  was  nae  licht  i'  this  room  but  the 
licht  o'  the  fire — an'  no  muckle  o'  that, 
for  'twas  maistly  peat  —  sac  I  saw  her 
weel  eneuch  ohn  bein'  seen  mysel'. 
She  cam  straucht  to  the  window  and 
drew  doon  the  blind,  but  lost  hersel'  a 
bit,  or  she  wad  never  hae  set  doon  her 
can'le  whaur  it  cuist  a  shaidow  o'  hersel' 
an'  her  duin's  upo'  the  blind." 

"An'  what  was  't  she  was  efter,  the 
jaud  ?"  cried  Miss  Horn,  without  any 
attempt  to  conceal  her  growing  interest. 

"She  made  naethin'  o'  't,  whatever  it 
was  ;  for  doon  the  street  cam  the  schuil- 
maister  an'  chappit  at  the  door,  an'  gaed 
in  an'  waitit  till  ye  cam  hame." 

"Weel?"  said  Miss  Horn. 

But  Mrs.  Mellis  held  her  peace. 

"Weel?"  repeated  Miss  Horn. 

"Weel,"  returned  Mrs.  Mellis,  with  a 
curious  mixture  of  deference  and  con- 
scious sagacity  in  her  tone,  "a'  'at  I  tak 
upo'  me  to  say  is.  Think  ye  twise  afore 
ye  lippen  to  that  Jean  o'  yours." 

"I  lippen  naething  till  her.  I  wad  as 
sune  lippen  to  the  dottle  o'  a  pipe  amo' 
dry  strae.  What  saw  ye.  Mistress  Mel- 
lis ?" 

"  Ye  needna  speyk  like  that,"  returned 
Mrs.  Mellis,  for  Miss  Horn's  tone  was 
threatening:  "I'm  no  Jean." 

"What  saw  ye?"  repeated  Miss  Horn, 
more  gently,  but  not  less  eagerly. 

"Whause  is  that  kist  o'  mahogany 
drawers  i'  tliat  bedroom,  gien  I  may 
preshume  to  speir?" 

"  Whause  but  mine  ?" 

"  They're  no  Jean's  ?" 

"Jean's!" 

"Ye  micht  hae  latten  her  keep  her  bit 
duds  i'  them,  for  onything  I  kent." 

"Jean's  duds  in  my  Grizel's  drawers! 
A  lik'ly  thing!" 

"  Hm !  They  war  poor  Miss  Cam'- 
el"s,  war  they  ?" 

"They  war  Grizel  Cam'ell's  drawers 
as  lang's  she  had  use  for  ony ;  but  what 
for  ye  sud  say  poor  till  her  I  dinna  ken, 
'cep'  it  be  'at  she  's  gane  whaur  they 
haena  muckle  'at  needs  layin'  in  draw- 
ers.   That's  neither  here  nor  there.     Div 


236 


MALCOLM. 


ye  tell  me  'at  Jean  was  intromittin'  wi' 
thae  drawers  ?  They're  a'  lockit,  ilk 
ane  o'  them  ;  an'  they're  guid  locks." 

"No  ower-guid  to  hae  keyes  to  them, 
are  they?" 

"The  keyes  are  i'  my  pooch,"  said 
Miss  Horn,  clapping  her  hand  to  the 
skirt  of  her  dress.  "They're  aye  i'  my 
pooch,  though  I  haena  had  the  fcelin's 
to  mak  use  o'  them  sin'  she  left  me." 

"  Are  ye  sure  they  war  there  last  nicht, 
mem  ?" 

Miss  Horn  seemed  struck.  "  I  had  on 
my  black  silk  last  nicht,'  she  answer- 
ed vaguely,  and  was  silent,  pondering 
doubtfully. 

"  Weel,  mem,  jist  y?  put  on  yer  black 
silk  again  the  morn's  nicht,  an'  come 
ower  here  aboot  aucht  o'clock,  an'  ye'U 
be  able  to  jeedge  by  her  ongang  whan 
ye're  no  i'  the  hoose  gien  there  be  ony- 
thing  amiss  wi'  Jean.  There  canna  be 
muckle  ill  dune  yet,  that's  a  comfort." 

"What  ill,  by  [beyond]  meddlin'  wi' 
what  doesna  concern  her,  cud  the  wu- 
man  du  ?"  said  Miss  Horn,  with  attempt- 
ed confidence. 

"That  ye  sud  ken  best  yersel',  mem. 
But  Jean's  an  awfu'  gossip,  an'  a  lady 
like  yer  cousin  micht  hae  left  dockiments 
ahint  her  'at  she  wadna  jist  like  to  hear 
procleemt  frae  the  hoosetap.  No  'at 
she  '11  ever  hear  onything  mair,  poor 
thing!" 

"What  mean  ye?"  cried  Miss  Horn, 
half  frightened,  half  angry. 

"Jist  what  I  say,  neither  mair  nor  less," 
returned  Mrs.  Mellis.  "Miss  Cam'ell 
may  weel  hae  left  letters  for  enstance, 
an'  hoo  wad  they  fare  in  Jean's  ban's?" 

"Whan  /  never  had  the  hert  to  open 
her  drawers!"  exclaimed  Miss  Horn,  en- 
raged at  the  very  notion  of  the  crime. 
"/  hae  7iae  feelin's,  thank  God  for  the 
furnishin'  o'  me !" 

"  I  doobt  Jean  has  her  full  share  o'  a' 
feelin's  belangin'  to  fallen  human  na- 
tur',"  said  Mrs.  Mellis  with  a  slow  hori- 
zontal oscillation  of  her  head.  "  But  ye 
jist  come  an'  see  wi'  yer  ain  een,  an' 
syne  jeedge  for  yersel' :  il's  no  business 
o'  mine." 

"I'll  come  the  nicht.  Mistress  Mellis. 
Only  lat  it  be  atween  's  twa." 


"  I  can  baud  my  tongue,  mem — that  is, 
frae  a'  but  ane.  Sae  lang's  merried  fowk 
sleeps  in  ae  bed,  it's  ill  to  baud  onything 
till  a  body's  sel'." 

"Mr.  Mellis  is  a  douce  man,  an'  I 
carena  what  he  kens,"  answered  Miss 
Horn. 

She  descended  to  the  shop,  and  hav- 
ing bought  bulk  enough  to  account  to 
Jean  for  her  lengthened  stay,  for  she  had 
beyond  a  doubt  been  watching  the  door 
of  the  shop,  she  crossed  the  street,  went 
up  to  her  parlor  and  rang  the  bell.  The 
same  moment  Jean's  head  was  popped 
in  at  the  door:  she  had  her  reasons  for 
always  answering  the  bell  like  a  bullet. 

"Mem  ?"  said  Jean. 

"Jean,  I'm  gaein'  oot  the  nicht.  The 
minister  oucht  to  be  spoken  till  aboot 
the  schuilmaister,  honest  man  !  Tak  the 
lantren  wi'  ye  to  the  manse  aboot  ten 
o'clock  :  that  '11  be  time  eneuch." 

"Verra  weel,  mem.  But  I'm  thinkin' 
there's  a  mune  the  nicht." 

"  Naething  but  the  doup  o'  ane,  Jean. 
It's  no  to  ca'  a  mune.  It's  a  mercy  we 
hae  lantrens,  an'  sic  a  sicht  o'  cairds 
{gypsies)  aboot!" 

"Ay,  the  lantren  lats  them  see  whaur 
ye  are,  an'  baud  oot  o'  yer  gait,"  said 
Jean,  who  happened  not  to  relish  going 
that  night. 

"  Troth,  wuman,  ye  're  richt  there,"  re- 
turned her  mistress  with  cheerful  assent. 
"  The  mair  they  see  o'  ye,  the  less  they 
'11  meddle  wi'  ye  —  caird  or  cadger. 
Haud  ye  the  licht  upo'  yer  ain  face,  lass, 
an'  there  's  feow  'ill  hae  the  hert  to  luik 
again." 

"Haith,  mem,  there  's  twa  sic-like  o* 
's,"  returned  Jean  bitterly,  and  bounced 
from  the  room. 

"That's  true  tu,"  said  her  mistress; 
adding  after  the  door  was  shut,  "It's  a 
peety  we  cudna  haud  on  thegither." 

"  I'm  gaein'  noo,  Jean,"  she  called  into 
the  kitchen  as  she  crossed  the  threshold 
at  eight  o'clock. 

She  turned  toward  the  head  of  the 
street  in  the  direction  of  the  manse,  but 
out  of  the  range  of  Jean's  vision  made 
a  circuit,  and  entered  Mr.  McUis's  house 
by  the  garden  at  the  back. 

In  the  parlor  she  found  a  supper  pre- 


MALCOLM, 


237 


pared  to  celebrate  the  renewal  of  old 
goodwill.  The  clear  crystal  on  the  table ; 
the  new  loaf,  so  brown  without  and  so 
white  within ;  the  rich,  clear-complex- 
ioned  butter,  undebased  with  a  particle 
of  salt ;  the  self-satisfied  hum  of  the 
kettle  in  attendance  for  the  guidman's 
toddy  ;  the  bright  fire,  the  golden  glow 
of  the  brass  fender  in  its  red  light,  and 
the  dish  of  boiled  potatoes  set  down  be- 
fore it  under  a  snowy  cloth  ;  the  pink 
eggs,  the  yellow  haddock  and  the  crim- 
son strawberry  jam,  all  combined  their 
influences — each  with  its  private  pleas- 
ure wondrously  heightened  by  the  zest 
of  a  secret  watch  and  the  hope  of  dis- 
comfited mischief — to  draw  into  a  friend- 
ship what  had  hitherto  been  but  a  some- 
what insecure  neighborship.  From  be- 
low came  the  sound  of  the  shutters  which 
Mr.  Mellis  was  putting  up  a  few  minutes 
earlier  than  usual ;  and  when  presently 
they  sat  down  to  the  table,  and  after  pro- 
logue judged  suitable  proceeded  to  enjoy 
the  good  things  before  them,  an  outside 
observer  would  have  thought  they  had 
a  pleasant  evening,  if  not  Time  himself, 
by  the  forelock. 

But  Miss  Horn  was  uneasy.  The 
thought  of  what  Jean  might  have  already 
discovered  had  haunted  her  all  day  long, 
for  her  reluctance  to  open  her  cousin's 
drawer's  had  arisen  mainly  from  the 
dread  of  finding  justified  a  certain  pain- 
ful suspicion  which  had  haunted  the 
whole  of  her  intercourse  with  Grizel 
Campbell — namely,  that  the  worm  of  a 
secret  had  been  lying  at  the  root  of  her 
life,  the  cause  of  all  her  illness,  and  of 
her  death  at  last.  She  had  fought  with, 
out-argued  and  banished  the  suspicion  a 
thousand  times  while  she  was  with  her, 
but  evermore  it  had  returned  ;  and  now 
since  her  death,  when  again  and  again 
on  the  point  of  turning  over  her  things, 
she  had  been  always  deterred  by  the 
fear  not  so  much  of  finding  what  would 
pain  herself  as  of  discovering  what  Gri- 
zel would  not  wish  her  to  know.  Never 
was  there  a  greater  contrast  between 
form  and  reality,  between  person  and 
being,  between  manner  and  nature,  than 
existed  in  Margaret  Horn  ;  the  shell  was 
rough,  the  kernel  absolute  delicacy.    Not 


for  a  moment  had  her  suspicion  altered 
her  behavior  to  the  gentle  suffering  crea- 
ture toward  whom  she  had  adopted  the 
relation  of  an  elder  and  stronger  sister. 
To  herself,  when  most  satisfied  of  the  ex- 
istence of  a  secret,  she  steadily  excused 
her  cousin's  withholdment  of  confidence 
on  the  ground  of  her  own  lack  of  feel- 
ings :  how  could  she  unbosom  herself  to 
such  as  she  ?  And  now  the  thought  of 
eyes  like  Jean's  exploring  Grizel's  for- 
saken treasures  made  her  so  indignant 
and  restless  that  she  could  hardly  even 
pretend  to  enjoy  her  friends'  hospitality. 

Mrs.  Mellis  had  so  arranged  the  table 
and  their  places  that  she  and  her  guest 
had  only  to  lift  their  eyes  to  see  the  win- 
dow of  their  watch,  while  she  punished 
her  husband  for  the  virile  claim  to  great- 
er freedom  from  curiosity  by  seating  him 
with  his  back  to  it,  which  made  him 
every  now  and  then  cast  a  fidgety  look 
over  his  shoulder  —  not  greatly  to  the 
detriment  of  his  supper,  however.  Their 
plan  was  to  extinguish  their  own  the 
moment  Jean's  light  should  appear,  and 
so  watch  without  the  risk  of  counter- 
discovery. 

"There  she  comes!"  cried  Mrs.  Mel- 
lis ;  and  her  husband  and  Miss  Horn 
made  such  haste  to  blow  out  the  candle 
that  they  knocked  their  heads  together, 
blew  in  each  other's  face,  and  the  first 
time  missed  it. 

Jean  approached  the  window  with  hers 
in  her  hand  and  pulled  down  the  blind. 
But,  alas !  beyond  the  form  of  a  close- 
bent  elbow  moving  now  and  then  across 
a  corner  of  the  white  field,  no  shadow 
appeared  upon  it ! 

Miss  Horn  rose. 

"  Sit  doon,  mem,  sit  doon  !  ye  hae  nae- 
thing  to  gang  upo'  yet,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Mellis,  who,  being  a  baillie,  was  an  au- 
thority. 

"  I  can  sit  nae  langer,  Mr.  Mellis,"  re- 
turned Miss  Horn.  "I  hae  eneuch  to 
gang  upo'  as  lang's  I  hae  my  ain  flure 
aneth  my  feet :  the  wuman  has  no  busi- 
ness there.  I'll  jist  slip  across  an'  gang 
in  as  quaiet  as  a  sowl  intill  a  boady,  but 
I  s'  warran'  I  s'  mak  a  din  afore  I  come 
oot  again."  With  a  grim  diagonal  nod 
she  left  the  room. 


238 


MALCOLM. 


Although  it  was  now  quite  dark,  she 
yet  deemed  it  prudent  to  go  by  the  gar- 
den-gate into  the  baclc  lane,  and  so  cross 
the  street  lower  down.  Opening  her  own 
door  noiselessly  —  thanks  to  Jean,  who 
kept  the  lock  well  oiled  for  reasons  of  Mrs. 
Catanach's  —  she  closed  it  as  silently, 
and,  long-boned  as  she  was,  crept  up  the 
stair  like  a  cat.  The  light  was  shining 
from  the  room  :  the  door  was  ajar.  She 
listened  at  it  for  a  moment,  and  could 
distinguish  nothing:  then,  fancying  she 
heard  the  rustle  of  paper,  could  bear  it 
no  longer,  pushed  the  door  open  and 
entered.  There  stood  Jean,  staring  at 
her  with  fear-blanched  face,  a  deep  top- 
drawer  open  before  her,  and  her  hands 
full  of  things  she  was  in  the  act  of  re- 
placing. Her  terror  culminated  and  its 
spell  broke  in  a  shriek  when  her  mistress 
sprang  upon  her  like  a  tigress. 

The  watchers  in  the  opposite  house 
heard  no  cry,  and  only  saw  a  heave  of 
two  intermingled  black  shadows  across 
the  blind,  after  which  they  neither  heard 
nor  saw  anything  more.  The  light  went 
on  burning  until  its  final  struggle  with 
the  darkness  began,  when  it  died  with 
many  a  flickering  throb.  Unable  at  last 
to  endure  the  suspense,  now  growing  to 
fear,  any  longer,  they  stole  across  the 
street,  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 
Over  the  kitchen-fire,  like  an  evil  spirit 
of  the  squabby  order,  crouched  Mrs. 
Catanach,  waiting  for  Jean  :  no  one  else 
was  to  be  found. 

About  ten  o'clock  the  same  evening, 
as  Mr.  Graham  sat  by  his  peat-fire,  some 
one  lifted  the  latch  of  the  outer  door  and 
knocked  at  the  inner.  His  invitation  to 
enter  was  answered  by  the  appearance 
of  Miss  Horn,  gaunt  and  grim  as  usual, 
but  with  more  than  the  wonted  fire 
gleaming  from  the  shadowy  cavern  of 
her  bonnet.  She  made  no  apology  for 
the  lateness  of  her  visit,  but  seated  her- 
self at  the  other  side  of  the  deal  table, 
and  laid  upon  it  a  paper  parcel,  which 
she  proceeded  to  open  with  much  delib- 
eration and  suppressed  plenitude.  Hav- 
ing at  length  untied  the  string  with  the 
long  fingers  of  a  hand  which,  notwith- 
standing its  evident  strength,  trembled 
so  as  almost  to  defeat  the  attempt,  she 


took  from  the  parcel  a  packet  of  old  let- 
ters sealed  with  spangled  wax,  and  push- 
ed it  across  the  table  to  the  schoolmaster, 
saying, "  Hae,  Sandy  Graham  !  Naebody 
but  yersel'  has  a  richt  to  say  what's  to 
be  dune  wi'  ihefn." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  took  them 
gently,  with  a  look  of  sadness,  but  no 
surprise. 

"  Dinna  think  I  hae  been  readin'  them, 
Sandy  Graham.  Na,  na :  I  wad  read  nae 
honest  man's  letters,  be  they  written  to 
wha  they  micht." 

Mr.  Graham  was  silent. 

"Ye're  a  guid  man,  Sandy  Graham," 
Miss  Horn  resumed,  "gien  God  ever  took 
the  pains  to  mak  ane.  Dinna  think  ony- 
thing  atween  you  an'  her  wad  hae  brocht 
me  at  this  time  o'  nicht  to  disturb  ye  in 
yer  ain  chaumer.  Na,  na.  Whatever 
was  atween  you  twa  had  an  honest  man 
intill't,  an'  I  wad  hae  taen  my  time  to 
gie  ye  back  yer  dockiments.  But  there's 
some  o'  anither  mark  here." 

As  she  spoke  she  drew  from  the  parcel 
a  small  cardboard  box  broken  at  the 
sides  and  tied  with  a  bit  of  tape.  This 
she  undid,  and,  turning  the  box  upside 
down,  tumbled  its  contents  out  on  the 
table  before  him.  "What  mak  ye  o'  sic 
like  as  thae  ?"  she  said. 

"Do  you  want  me  to — ?"  asked  the 
schoolmaster  with  trembling  voice. 

"  I  jist  div,"  she  answered. 

They  were  a  number  of  little  notes — 
some  of  but  a  word  or  two,  and  signed 
with  initials ;  others  longer,  and  signed 
in  full.  Mr.  Graham  took  up  one  of 
them  reluctantly  and  unfolded  it  softly. 
He  had  hardly  looked  at  it  when  he  start- 
ed and  exclaimed,  "God  have  mercy! 
What  can  be  the  date  of  this  ?" 

There  was  no  date  to  it.  He  held  it 
in  his  hand  for  a  minute,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  fire,  and  his  features  almost  con- 
vulsed with  his  efforts  at  composure ; 
then  laid  it  gently  on  the  table,  and  said, 
but  without  turning  his  eyes  to  Miss 
Horn,  "I  cannot  read  this.  You  must 
not  ask  me.  It  refers  doubtless  to  the 
time  when  Miss  Campbell  was  governess 
to  Lady  Annabel.  I  see  no  end  to  be 
answered  by  my  reading  one  of  these 
letters." 


MALCOLM. 


239 


"  I  daur  say.  Wha  ever  saw  'at  wad- 
na  luik  ?"  returned  Miss  Horn  with  a 
glance  keen  as  an  eagle's  into  the  thought- 
ful eyes  of  her  friend. 

"Why  not  do  by  the  writer  of  these  as 
you  have  done  by  me  ?  Why  not  take 
them  to  him  ?"  suggested  Mr.  Graham. 

"  That  wad  be  but  thoomb-fingert  wark, 
to  lat  gang  the  en'  o'  yer  hank,"  exclaim- 
ed Miss  Horn. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  ma'am." 

"Weel,  I  maun  gar  ye  un'erstan'  me. 
There's  things  whiles,  Sandy  Graham, 
'at  's  no  easy  to  speyk  aboot,  but  I  hae 
nae  feelin's,  an'  we'll  a'  be  deid  or  lang, 
an'  that's  a  comfort.  Man  'at  ye  are, 
ye're  the  only  human  bein'  I  wad  open 
my  moo'  till  aboot  this  maitter,  an'  that's 
'cause  ye  lo'e  the  memory  0'  my  puir 
lassie,  Grizel  Cam'ell." 

"  It  is  not  her  memory,  it  is  herself  I 
love,"  said  the  schoolmaster  with  trem- 
bling voice.  "  Tell  me  what  you  please  : 
you  may  trust  me." 

"Gien  I  needit  you  to  tell  me  that,  I 


wad  trust  ye  as  I  wad  the  black  dog  wi' 
butter.     Hearken,  Sandy  Graham!" 

The  result  of  her  communication  and 
their  following  conference  was  that  she 
returned  about  midnight  with  a  journey 
before  her,  the  object  of  which  was  to 
place  the  letters  in  the  safe-keeping  of  a 
lawyer  friend  in  the  neighboring  county 
town. 

Long  before  she  reached  home  Mrs. 
Catanach  had  left — not  without  commu- 
nication with  her  ally,  in  spite  of  a  cer- 
tain precaution  adoped  by  her  mistress, 
the  first  thing  the  latter  did  when  she 
entered  being  to  take  the  key  of  the  cel- 
lar-stairs from  her  pocket  and  release 
Jean,  who  issued  crestfallen  and  miser- 
able, and  was  sternly  dismissed  to  bed. 
The  next  day,  however,  for  reasons  of 
her  own,  Miss  Horn  permitted  her  to  re- 
sume her  duties  about  the  house  without 
remark,  as  if  nothing  had  happened 
serious  enough  to  render  further  meas- 
ures necessary. 


:p_a.:e^t    ixii. 


CHAPTER   LX. 
THE       SACRAMENT. 

ABANDONING  all  her  remaining  ef- 
fects to  Jean's  curiosity — if  indeed  it 
were  no  worse  demon  that  possessed  her 
— Miss  Horn,  carrying  a  large  reticule, 
betook  herself  to  the  Lossie  Arms,  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  mail  coach  from 
the  west,  on  which  she  was  pretty  sure  of 
a  vacant  seat. 

It  was  a  still,  frosty,  finger-pinching 
dawn,  and  the  rime  lay  thick  wherever 
it  could  lie,  but  Miss  Horn's  red  nose 
was  carried  in  front  of  her  in  a  manner 
that  suggested  nothing  but  defiance  to 
the  fiercest  attacks  of  cold.  Declining 
the  offered  shelter  of  the  landlady's  par- 
lor, she  planted  herself  on  the  steps  of 
the  inn,  and  there  stood  until  the  sound 
of  the  guard's  horn  came  crackling 
through  the  frosty  air,  heralding  the  ap- 
parition of  a  flaming  chariot  fit  for  the 
sun-god  himself,  who  was  now  lifting  his 
red  radiance  above  the  horizon.  Having 
none  inside,  the  guard  gallantly  offered 
his  one  lady-passenger  a  place  in  the 
heart  of  his  vehicle,  but  she  declined  the 
attention — to  him,  on  the  ground  of  pre- 
ferring the  outside ;  for  herself,  on  the 
ground  of  uncertainty  whether  he  had  a 
right  to  bestow  the  privilege.  But  there 
was  such  a  fire  in  her  heart  that  no  frost 
could  chill  her — such  a  bright  bow  in  her 
west  that  the  sun  now  rising  in  the  world's 
east  was  but  a  reflex  of  its  splendor. 
True,  the  cloud  against  which  it  glowed 
was  very  dark  with  bygone  wrong  and 
suffering,  but  so  much  the  more  brilliant 
seemed  the  hope  now  arching  the  en- 
trance of  the  future.  Still,  although  she 
never  felt  the  cold,  and  the  journey  was 
but  of  a  few  miles,  it  seemed  long  and 
wearisome  to  her  active  spirit,  which 
would  gladly  have  sent  her  tall  person 
striding  along  to  relieve  both  by  the  dis- 
charge of  the  excessive  generation  of 
muscle-working  electricity. 
240 


At  length  the  coach  drove  into  the 
town,  and  stopped  at  the  Duff  Arms. 
Miss  Horn  descended,  straightened  her 
long  back  with  some  difficulty,  shook 
her  feet,  loosened  her  knees,  and  after  a 
douceur  to  the  guard  more  liberal  than 
was  customary  in  acknowledgment  ot 
the  kindness  she  had  been  unable  to 
accept,  marched  off  with  the  stride  of 
a  grenadier  to  find  her  lawyer. 

Their  interview  did  not  relieve  her  of 
much  of  the  time,  which  now  hung  upon 
her  like  a  cloak  of  lead,  and  the  earli- 
ness  of  the  hour  would  not  have  deterred 
her  from  at  once  commencing  a  round 
of  visits  to  the  friends  she  had  in  the 
place  ;  but  the  gates  of  the  lovely  en- 
virons of  Fife  House  stood  open,  and 
although  there  were  no  flowers  now,  and 
the  trees  were  leafless,  waiting  in  poverty 
and  patience  for  their  coming  riches,  they 
drew  her  with  the  offer  of  a  plentiful 
loneliness  and  room.  She  accepted  it, 
entered,  and  for  two  hours  wandered 
about  their  woods  and  walks. 

Entering  with  her  the  well-known  do- 
main, the  thought  meets  me  :  What  would 
be  the  effect  on  us  men  of  such  a  peri- 
odical alternation  between  nothing  and 
abundance  as  these  woods  undergo? 
Perhaps  in  the  endless  variety  of  worlds 
there  may  be  one  in  which  that  is  among 
the  means  whereby  its  dwellers  are  saved 
from  self  and  lifted  into  life — a  world  in 
which  during  the  one-half  of  the  year 
they  walk  in  state,  in  splendor,  in  bounty, 
and  during  the  other  are  plunged  in  pen- 
ury and  labor. 

Such  speculations  were  not  in  Miss 
Horn's  way,  but  she  was  better  than  the 
loftiest  of  speculations,  and  we  will  fol- 
low her.  By  and  by  she  came  out  of 
the  woods,  and  found  herself  on  the 
banks  of  the  Wan  Water,  a  broad,  fine 
river,  here  talking  in  widc-ripplcd  inno- 
cence from  bank  to  bank,  there  lying 
silent  and  motionless  and  gloomy,  as  if 


MALCOLM. 


241 


all  the  secrets  of  the  drowned  since  the 
creation  of  the  world  lay  dim-floating  in 
its  shadowy  bosom.  In  great  sweeps  it 
sought  the  ocean,  and  the  trees  stood 
back  from  its  borders,  leaving  a  broad 
margin  of  grass  between,  as  if  the  better 
to  see  it  go.  Just  outside  the  grounds, 
and  before  reaching  the  sea,  it  passed 
under  a  long  bridge  of  many  arches — 
then,  trees  and  grass  and  flowers  and  all 
greenery  left  behind,  rushed  through  a 
waste  of  storm-heaped  pebbles  into  the 
world-water.  Miss  Horn  followed  it  out 
of  the  grounds  and  on  to  the  beach. 

Here  its  channel  was  constantly  chang- 
ing. Even  while  she  stood  gazing  at  its 
rapid  rush  its  bank  of  pebbles  and  sand 
fell  almost  from  under  her  feet.  But  her 
thoughts  were  so  busy  that  she  scarcely 
observed  even  what  she  saw,  and  hence 
it  was  not  strange  that  she  should  be  un- 
aware of  having  been  followed  and  watch- 
ed all  the  way.  Now  from  behind  a  tree, 
now  from  a  corner  of  the  mausoleum, 
now  from  behind  a  rock,  now  over  the 
parapet  of  the  bridge,  the  mad  laird  had 
watched  her.  From  a  heap  of  shingle 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Wan  Water 
he  was  watching  her  now.  Again  and 
again  he  made  a  sudden  movement  as 
if  to  run  and  accost  her,  but  had  always 
drawn  back  again  and  concealed  him- 
self more  carefully  than  before. 

At  length  she  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  town.  It  was  a  quaint  old  place 
— a  royal  burgh  for  five  centuries,  with 
streets  irregular  and  houses  of  much  in- 
dividuality. Most  of  the  latter  were  hum- 
ble in  appearance,  bare  and  hard  in  form 
and  gray  in  hue ;  but  there  were  curious 
corners,  low  archways,  uncompromising 
gables,  some  with  corbel-steps — now  and 
then  an  outside  stair,  a  delicious  little 
dormer  window  or  a  Gothic  doorway, 
sometimes  with  a  bit  of  carving  over  it. 

With  the  bent  head  of  the  climber  Miss 
Horn  was  walking  up  a  certain  street, 
called  from  its  precipitousness  the  Strait 
(that  is,  Difficult)  Path  —  an  absolute 
Hill  of  Difficulty — when  she  was  accost- 
ed by  an  elderly  man  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  one  of  the  houses. 

"  Ken  ye  wha  's  yon  watchin'  ye  frae 
the  tap  o'  the  brae,  mem  ?"  he  said. 
16 


Miss  Horn  looked  up :  there  was  no 
one  there. 

"That's  it  —  he's  awa'  again.  That's 
the  w'y  he's  been  duin'  this  last  hoor, 
at  least,  to  my  knowledge.  I  saw  him 
watchin'  ilka  mov'  ye  made,  mem,  a' 
the  time  ye  was  doon  upo'  the  shore ; 
an'  fhere  he  is  noo,  or  was  a  meenute 
ago,  at  the  heid  o'  the  brae,  glowerin' 
the  een  oot  o'  's  heid  at  ye,  mem." 

"  Div  ye  ken  him  ?"  asked  Miss  Horn. 

"No,  mem,  'cep'  by  sicht  o'  ee :  he 
hasna  been  lang  aboot  the  toon.  Some 
fowk  says  he's  dementit ;  but  he's  unco 
quaiet,  speyks  to  nobody,  an'  gien  ony- 
body  speyk  to  him  jist  rins.  Cud  he  be 
kennin'  you,  no  ?  Ye're  a  stranger  here, 
mem  ?" 

"No  sic  a  stranger,  John,"  returned 
Miss  Horn,  calling  the  man  by  his  name, 
for  she  recognized  him  as  the  beadle  of 
the  parish  church.  "What's  the  body 
like  ?" 

"A  puir,  wee,  hump-backit  cratur,  wi' 
the  face  o'  a  gentleman." 

"I  ken  him  weel,"  said  Miss  Horn. 
"  He  is  a  gentleman,  gien  ever  God  made 
ane.  But  he's  sair  afflickit.  Whaur  does 
he  lie  at  nicht,  can  ye  tell  me  .''" 

"I  ken  naething  aboot  him,  mem, 
by  what  comes  o'  seein'  him  sic  like  's 
the  day,  an'  ance  teetin'  [peeriJig)  in  at 
the  door  o'  the  kirk.  I  wad  hae  weised 
him  till  a  seat,  but  the  moment  I  luikit 
at  him  awa'  he  ran.  He's  unco  cheenged, 
though,  sin'  the  first  time  I  saw  him." 

Since  he  lost  Phemy  fear  had  been 
slaying  him.  No  one  knew  where  he 
slept,  but  in  the  daytime  he  haunted  the 
streets,  judging  them  safer  than  the  fields 
or  woods.  The  moment  any  one  accost- 
ed him,  however,  he  fled  like  the  wind. 
He  had  "no  art  to  find  the  mind's  con- 
struction in  the  face,"  and  not  knowing 
whom  to  trust,  he  distrusted  all.  Hu- 
manity was  good  in  his  eyes,  but  there 
was  no  "man.  The  vision  of  Miss  Horn 
was  like  the  day-spring  from  on  high  to 
him  :  with  her  near  the  hosts  of  the  Lord 
seemed  to  encamp  around  him  ;  but  the 
one  word  he  had  heard  her  utter  about 
his  back  had  caused  in  him  an  invinci- 
ble repugnance  to  appearing  before  her, 
and  hence  it  was  that  at  a  distance  he 


242 


MALCOLM. 


had  haunted  her  steps  without   nearer 
approach. 

There  was  indeed  a  change  upon  him. 
His  clothes  hung  about  him — not  from 
their  own  ragged  condition  only,  but 
also  from  the  state  of  skin  and  bone  to 
which  he  was  reduced,  his  hump  show- 
ing like  a  great  peg  over  which  thej*  had 
been  carelessly  cast.  Half  the  round  of 
his  eyes  stood  out  from  his  face,  whose 
pallor  betokened  the  ever-recurring  rush 
of  the  faintly-sallying  troops  back  to  the 
citadel  of  the  heart.  He  had  always 
been  ready  to  run,  but  now  he  looked  as 
if  nothing  but  weakness  and  weariness 
kept  him  from  running  always.  Miss 
Horn  had  presently  an  opportunity  of 
marking  the  sad  alteration. 

For  ere  she  reached  the  head  of  the 
Strait  Path  she  heard  sounds  as  of  boys 
at  play,  and  coming  out  on  the  level  of 
the  High  street,  saw  a  crowd,  mostly  of 
little  boys,  in  the  angle  made  by  a  gar- 
den-wall with  a  house  whose  gable  stood 
halfway  across  the  pavement.  It  being 
Saturday,  they  had  just  left  school  in  all 
the  exuberance  of  spirits  to  which  a  half 
holiday  gives  occasion.  In  most  of  them 
the  animal  nature  was,  for  the  time  at 
least,  far  wider  awake  than  the  human, 
and  their  proclivity  toward  the  sport  of 
■  the  persecutor  was  strong.  To  them  any 
tliving  thing  that  looked  at  once  odd  and 
rhelpless  was  an  outlaw — a  creature  to  be 
:.tormented,  or  at  best  hunted  beyond  the 
visible  world.  A  meagre  cat,  an  over- 
■jfed  pet  spaniel,  a  ditchless  frog,  a  horse 
-whose  days  hung  over  the  verge  of  the 
Iknacker's  yard — each  was  theirs  in  vir- 
,.tue  of  the  amusement  latent  in  it,  which 
it  was  their  business  to  draw  out ;  but 
of  aJl  such  property  an  idiot  would  yield 
the  JTiost,  and  a  hunchback  idiot,  such  as 
was  the  laird  in  their  eyes,  was  absolute- 
ly invaluable — beyond  comparison  the 
best  game  in  the  known  universe.  When 
he  left  Portlossie  the  laird  knew  pretty 
well  what  risks  he  ran,  although  he  pre- 
ferred even  them  to  the  dangers  he  hoped 
by  his  flight  to  avoid.  It  was  he  whom 
the  crowd  in  question  surrounded. 

They  had  Ijcgun  by  rough  teasing,  to 
which  he  had  responded  with  smiles — a 
rssult  which  did  not  at  all  gratify  them, 


their  chief  object  being  to  enrage  him. 
They  had  therefore  proceeded  to  small 
torments,  and  were  ready  to  go  on  to 
worse,  their  object  being  with  the  laird 
hard  to  compass.  Unhappily,  there  were 
amongst  them  two  or  three  bigger  boys. 
The  moment  Miss  Horn  descried  what 
they  were  about,  she  rushed  into  the 
midst  of  them  like  a  long  bolt  from  a 
catapult,  and,  scattering  them  right  and 
left  from  their  victim,  turned  and  stood 
in  front  of  him,  regarding  his  persecutors 
with  defiance  in  her  flaming  eye  and 
vengeance  in  her  indignant  nose.  But 
there  was  about  Miss  Horn  herself  enough 
of  the  peculiar  to  mark  her  also,  to  the 
superficial  observer,  as  the  natural  prey 
of  boys ;  and  the  moment  the  first  bil- 
low of  consternation  had  passed  and 
sunk,  beginning  to  regard  her  as  she 
stood,  the  vain  imagination  awoke  in 
these  young  lords  of  misrule.  They 
commenced  their  attack  upon  her  by  re- 
suming it  upon  her  protege.  She  spread 
out  her  skirts,  far  from  voluminous,  to 
protect  him  as  he  cowered  behind  them, 
and  so  long  as  she  was  successful  in 
shielding  him  her  wrath  smouldered,  but 
powerfully.  At  length  one  of  the  bigger 
boys,  creeping  slyly  up  behind  the  front 
row  of  smaller  ones,  succeeded  in  poking 
a  piece  of  iron  rod  past  her  and  drawing 
a  cry  from  the  laird.  Out  blazed  the 
lurking  flame.  The  boy  had  risen,  and 
was  now  attempting  to  prosecute  like  an 
ape  what  he  had  commenced  like  a  snake. 
Inspired  by  the  God  of  armies,  the  Lord 
of  hosts,  she  rushed  upon  him  and  struck 
him  into  the  gutter.  He  fell  in  the  very 
spot  where  he  had  found  his  weapon, 
and  there  he  lay.  The  Christian  Ama- 
zon turned  to  the  laird  :  overflowing  with 
compassion,  she  stooped  and  kissed  his 
forehead,  then  took  him  by  the  hand  to 
lead  him  away.  But  most  of  the  eneimy 
had  gathered  around  their  fallen  com- 
rade, and,  seized  with  some  anxiety  as  to 
his  condition,  Miss  Horn  approached  the 
group  :  the  instant  she  turned  toward  it, 
the  laird  snatched  his  hand  from  hers, 
darted  away  like  a  hunting  spider,  and 
shot  down  the  Strait  Path  to  the  low 
street :  by  the  time  his  protectress  had 
looked  over  the  heads  of  the  group,  seen 


MALCOLM. 


243 


that  the  young  miscreant  was  not  seri- 
ously injured,  and  requested  him  to  take 
that  for  meddhng  with  a  helpless  inno- 
cent, the  object  of  her  solicitude,  whom 
she  supposed  standing  behind  her,  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  Twenty  voices,  now 
obsequious,  were  lifted  to  acquaint  her 
with  the  direction  in  which  he  had  gone  ; 
but  it  was  vain  to  attempt  following  him, 
and  she  pursued  her  way,  somewhat  sore 
at  his  want  of  faith  in  her,  to  the  house 
of  a  certain  relative,  a  dressmaker,  whom 
she  visited  as  often  as  she  went  to  Duff 
Harbor. 

Now,  Miss  Forsyth  was  one  of  a  small 
sect  of  worshipers  which  had,  not  many 
years  before,  built  a  chapel  in  the  town — 
a  quiet,  sober,  devout  company,  differing 
from  their  neighbors  in  nothing  deep- 
ly touching  the  welfare  of  humanity. 
Their  chief  fault  was  that,  attributing  to 
comparative  trifles  a  hugely  dispropor- 
tionate value,  they  would  tear  the  gar- 
ment in  pieces  rather  than  yield  their 
notion  of  the  right  way  of  wrapping  it 
together. 

It  so  happened  that  the  next  morning 
a  minister  famous  in  the  community  was 
to  preach  to  them,  on  which  ground  Miss 
Forsyth  persuaded  her  relatiA'e  to  stop 
over  the  Sunday  and  go  with  her  to  their 
chapel.  Bethinking  herself  next  that 
her  minister  had  no  sermon  to  prepare, 
she  took  Miss  Horn  to  call  upon  him. 

Mr.  Bigg  was  one  of  those  men  whose 
faculty  is  always  under-estimated  by  their 
acquaintances  and  over  -  estimated  by 
their  friends :  to  overvalue  him  was  impos- 
sible. He  was  not  merely  of  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  but  of  the  leaven  of  the  kingdom, 
contributing  more  to  the  true  life  of  the 
world  than  many  a  thousand  far  more 
widely  known  and  honored.  Such  as 
this  man  are  the  chief  springs  of  thought, 
feeling,  inquiry,  action  in  their  neighbor- 
hood ;  they  radiate  help  and  breathe 
comfort;  they  reprove,  they  counsel, 
they  sympathize ;  in  a  word,  they  are 
doorkeepers  of  the  house  of  God.  Con- 
stantly upon  its  threshold,  and  every 
moment  pushing  the  door  to  peep  in, 
they  let  out  radiance  enough  to  keep 
the  hearts  of  men  believing  in  the  light. 
They  make  an  atmosphere  about  them 


in  which  spiritual  things  can  thrive,  and 
out  of  their  school  often  come  men  who 
do  greater  things — better  they  cannot  do 
than  they. 

Although  a  separatist  as  to  externals, 
he  was  in  heart  a  most  catholic  man — 
would  have  found  himself  far  too  cath- 
olic for  the  community  over  which  he 
presided  had  its  members  been  capable 
of  understanding  him.  Indeed,  he  had 
with  many — although  such  was  the  force 
of  his  character  that  no  one  dared  a  word 
to  that  effect  in  his  hearing — the  reputa- 
tion of  being  lax  in  his  ideas  of  what 
constituted  a  saving  faith  ;  and  most  of 
the  sect  being  very  narrow-minded,  if 
not  small-hearted,  in  their  limitations  of 
the  company  fitly  partaking  of  the  last 
supper  of  our  Lord — requiring  proof  of 
intellectual  accord  with  themselves  as  to 
the  /tow  and  luhy  of  many  things,  espe- 
cially in  regard  of  what  they  called  the 
plan  of  salvation  —  he  was  generally 
judged  to  be  misled  by  the  deceitful 
kindliness  of  the  depraved  human  heart 
in  requiring  as  the  ground  of  communion 
only  such  an  uplook  to  Jesus  as,  when 
on  earth,  Jesus  himself  had  responded  to 
with  healing.  He  was  larger- hearted, 
and  therefore  larger -minded,  than  his 
people. 

In  the  course  of  their  conversation 
Miss  Forsj-th  recounted,  with  some  hu- 
mor, her  visitor's  prowess  on  behalf  of 
the  laird  —  much  to  honest  Mr.  Bigg's 
delight. 

"What  ither  cud  I  du  ?"  said  Miss 
Horn  apologetically.  "But  I  doobt  I 
strack  ower  sair.  Maybe  ye  wadna  ob- 
jec',  sir,  to  gang  and  speir  efter  the  lad- 
die, and  gie  him  some  guid  advice  ?" 

"  I'll  do  that,"  returned  Mr.  Bigg.  "Are 
we  to  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
in  our  conventicle  to-morrow  ?"  he  add- 
ed after  a  little  pause.  "  Dr.  Blair  is  go- 
ing to  preach." 

"Will  ye  hae  me,  Mr.  Bigg?" 

"Most  willingly,  ma'am;  and  we'll  be 
still  better  pleased  if  you'll  sit  down  with 
us  to  the  Lord's  table  afterward." 

"  I  gang  to  the  perris  kirk,  ye  ken  ?" 
said  Miss  Horn,  supposing  the  good  man 
unaware  of  the  fact. 

"Oh,  I  know  that,  ma'am.     But  don't 


244 


MALCOLM. 


you  think — as  we  shall,  I  trust,  sit  down 
together  to  his  heavenly  supper — it  would 
be  a  good  preparation  to  sit  down  to- 
gether, once  at  least,  to  his  earthly  sup- 
per first?" 

"  I  didna  ken  'at  ye  wad  hae  ony  but 
yer  ain  fowk.  I  hae  aften  thoucht,  my- 
sel',  it  was  jist  the  ae  thing  ony  Christi-an 
sud  be  ready  to  du  wi'  ony  ither.  Is  't 
a  new  thing  wi'  ye  to  baud  open  hoose 
this  gait,  sir,  glen  I  may  tak  the  leeberty 
to  speir  ?" 

"We  don't  exactly  keep  open  house. 
We  wouldn't  like  to  have  any  one  with 
us  who  would  count  it  poor  fare.  But 
still  less  would  we  like  to  exclude  one 
of  the  Lord's  friends.  If  that  is  a  new 
thing,  it  ought  to  be  an  old  one.  You  be- 
lieve in  Jesus  Christ,  don't  you,  ma'am  ?" 

"  I  dinna  ken  whether  I  believe  in  Him 
as  ye  wad  ca'  believin'  or  no :  there  's 
sic  a  heap  o'  things  broucht  to  the  fore 
noo-a-days  'at  I  canna  richtly  say  I  un- 
'erstan'.  But  as  He  dee'd  for  me,  I  wad 
dee  for  Him.  Raither  nor  say  I  didna 
ken  Him  I  wad  hing  aside  Him.  Peter 
an'  a',  I  canna  say  less." 

Mr.  Bigg's  eyes  began  to  smart,  and 
he  turned  away  his  head. 

"Gien  that  'U  du  wi'  ye,"  Miss  Horn 
went  on,  "  an'  ye  mean  no  desertion  o' 
the  kirk  o'  my  father,  an'  his  fathers  afore 
him,  I  wad  willin'ly  partak  wi'  ye." 

"You'll  be  welcome.  Miss  Horn  —  as 
welcome  as  any  of  my  own  flock." 

"Weel,  noo,  that  I  ca'  Christi-an," 
said  Miss  Horn,  rising.  "An'  'deed  I 
cud  wuss,"  she  added,  "'at  in  oor  ain 
kirk  we  had  mair  opportunity,  for  ance 
i'  the  tvvalmonth  's  no  verra  aften  to  tak 
up  the  thouchts  'at  belang  to  the  holy 
ord'nance." 

The  next  day,  after  a  powerful  ser- 
mon from  a  man  who,  although  in  high 
esteem,  was  not  for  moral  worth  or  heav- 
enly insight  to  be  compared  with  him 
whose  place  he  took,  they  proceeded  to 
the  celebration  of  the  Lord's  Supper 
after  the  fashion  of  that  portion  of  the 
Church  universal. 

The  communicants  sat  in  several  long 
pews  facing  the  communion-table,  which 
was  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit.  After  the 
reading  of  Saint  Paul's  account  of  the 


institution  of  the  Lord's  Supper,  accom- 
panied by  prayers  and  addresses,  the 
deacons  carried  the  bread  to  the  people, 
handing  a  slice  to  the  first  in  each  pew : 
each  person  in  turn  broke  off  a  portion, 
and  handed  what  remained  to  the  next. 
Thus  they  divided  it  among  themselves. 

It  so  happened  that  in  moving  up  to 
the  communion-seats  Miss  Forsyth  and 
Miss  Horn  were  the  last  to  enter  one  of 
them,  and  Miss  Horn,  very  needlessly 
insisting  on  her  custom  of  having  her 
more  capable  ear  toward  her  friend,  oc- 
cupied the  place  next  the  passage. 

The  service  had  hardly  commenced 
when  she  caught  sight  of  the  face  of  the 
mad  laird  peeping  in  at  the  door,  which 
was  in  the  side  of  the  building  near  where 
she  sat.  Their  eyes  met.  With  a  half- 
repentant,  half-apologetic  look,  he  crept 
in,  and,  apparently  to  get  as  near  his 
protectress  as  he  could,  sat  down  in  the 
entrance  of  an  empty  pew,  just  opposite 
the  one  in  which  she  was  seated,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  narrow  passage.  His 
presence  attracted  little  notice,  for  it  was 
quite  usual  for  individuals  of  the  con- 
gregation who  were  not  members  of  the 
church  to  linger  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
company  as  spectators. 

By  the  time  the  piece  of  bread  reached 
Miss  Horn  from  the  other  end  it  was 
but  a  fragment.  She  broke  it  in  two, 
and,  reserving  one  part  for  herself,  in 
place  of  handing  the  remnant  to  the  dea- 
con who  stood  ready  to  take  it,  stretched 
her  arm  across  the  passage  and  gave  it 
to  Mr.  Stewart,  who  had  been  watching 
the  proceedings  intently.  He  received 
it  from  her  hand,  bent  his  head  over  it 
devoutly,  and  ate  it,  unconscious  of  the 
scandalized  looks  of  the  deacon,  who 
knew  nothing  of  the  miserable  object 
thus  accepting  rather  than  claiming  a 
share  in  the  common  hope  of  men. 

When  the  cup  followed  the  deacon 
was  on  the  alert,  ready  to  take  it  at  once 
from  the  hands  of  Miss  Horn.  But  as 
it  left  her  lips  she  rose,  grasping  it  in 
both  hands,  and  with  the  dignity  of  a 
messenger  of  the  Most  High,  before 
which  the  deacon  drew  back,  bore  it  to 
the  laird,  and  having  made  him  drink 
the  little  that  was  left,  yielded  it  to  the 


MALCOLM. 


245 


conservator  of  holy  privileges,  -with  the 
words,  "  Hoots,  man !  the  puir  body 
never  had  a  taste  o'  the  balm  o'  Gilead 
in  a'  's  persecutit  life  afore." 

The  liberality  of  Mr.  Bigg  had  not 
been  lost  upon  her :  freely  she  had  re- 
ceived, freely  she  gave.  What  was  good 
must,  because  it  was  good,  be  divided 
with  her  neighbor.     It  was  a  lawless  act. 

As  soon  as  the  benediction  was  spoken 
the  laird  slipped  away,  but  as  he  left  the 
seat  Miss  Horn  heard  him  murmur,  "  Eh, 
the  bonny  man  !  the  bonny  man  !"  He 
could  hardly  have  meant  the  deacon. 
He  might  have  meant  Mr.  Bigg,  who 
had  concluded  the  observance  with  a 
simple  and  loving  exhortation. 


CHAPTER    LXI. 
Miss   HORN   AND   THE   PIPER. 

When  Miss  Horn  bethought  herself 
that  night,  in  prospect  of  returning  home 
the  next  day,  that  she  had  been  twice  in 
the  company  of  the  laird,  and  had  not 
even  thought  of  asking  him  about  Phemy, 
she  reproached  herself  not  a  little  ;  and 
it  was  with  shame  that  she  set  out,  im- 
mediately on  her  arrival,  to  tell  Malcolm 
that  she  had  seen  him.  No  one  at  the 
House  being  able  to  inform  her  where 
he  was  at  the  moment,  she  went  on  to 
Duncan's  cottage.  There  she  found  the 
piper,  who  could  not  tell  where  his  boy 
was,  but  gave  her  a  hearty  welcome  and 
offered  her  a  cup  of  tea,  which,  as  it  was 
now  late  in  the  afternoon.  Miss  Horn 
gladly  accepted.  As  he  bustled  about 
to  prepare  it,  refusing  all  assistance  from 
his  guest,  he  began  to  open  his  mind  to 
her  on  a  subject  much  in  his  thoughts — 
namely,  Malcolm's  inexplicable  aversion 
to  Mrs.  Stewart. 

"  Ta  nem  of  Stewart  will  pe  a  nople 
wont,  mem,"  he  said. 

"It's  guid  eneuch  to  ken  a  body  by," 
answered  Miss  Horn. 

"  If  ta  poy  will  pe  a  Stewart,"  he  went 
on,  heedless  of  the  indifference  of  her 
remark,  "who'll  pe  knowing  put  he'll 
may  pe  of  ta  plood  royal  ?" 

"There  didna  leuk  to  be  muckle  roy- 
^ty  aboot  auld  John,  honest  man,  wha 


cudna  rule  a  wife,  though  he  had  but 
ane,"  returned  Miss  Horn. 

"  If  you  '11  please,  mem,  ton't  you'll  pe 
too  sherp  on  ta  poor  man  whose  wife 
will  not  pe  ta  coot  wife.  If  ta  wife  will 
pe  ta  paad  wife,  she  will  pe  ta  paad  wife 
however  ;  and  ta  poor  man  will  pe  hafing 
ta  paad  wife  and  ta  paad  plame  of  it  too  ; 
and  tat  will  pe  more  as  '11  pe  fair,  mem." 

"'Deed,  ye  never  said  a  truer  word, 
Maister  MacPhail,"  assented  Miss  Horn. 
"  It's  a  mercy  'at  a  lone  wuman  like  me, 
wha  has  a  maisterfu'  temper  o'  her  ain, 
an'  no  feelin's,  was  never  putten  to  the 
temptation  o'  occkypeein'  sic  a  perilous 
position.  I  doobt  gien  auld  John  had 
been  merried  upo'  me,  I  micht  hae  put- 
ten  on  the  wrang  claes  some  mornin' 
mysel',  an'  maybe  had  ill  gettin'  o'  them 
aff  again." 

The  old  man  was  silent,  and  Miss  Horn 
resumed  the  main  subject  of  their  con- 
versation. "But  though  he  michtna  ob- 
jec'  till  a  father  'at  he  wasna  jist  Hector 
or  Golia'  o'  Gath,"  she  said,  "ye  canna 
wonner  'at  the  yoong  laad  no  carin'  to 
hae  sic  a  mither." 

"And  what  would  pe  ta  harm  with  ta 
mother  ?  Will  she  not  pe  a  coot  woman, 
and  a  coot  letty  more  to  ta  bargain  ?" 

"  Ye  ken  what  fowk  says  till  her  guide- 
ship  o'  her  son  ?" 

"Yes,  put  tat  will  pe  ta  lies  of  ta  peo- 
ples. Ta  peoples  wass  always  telling 
lies." 

"Weel,  allooin',  it's  a  peety  ye  sudna 
ken,  supposin'  him  to  be  hers,  hoo  sma' 
fowk  bauds  the  chance  0'  his  bein'  a 
Stewart,  for  a'  that." 

"She  '11  not  pe  comprestanding  you," 
said  Duncan,  bewildered. 

"  He's  a  wise  son  'at  kens  his  ain  fa- 
ther," remarked  Miss  Horn,  with  more 
point  than  originality.  "The  leddy  nev- 
er bore  the  best  o'  characters,  as  far  's 
my  memory  taks  me,  an'  that's  back 
afore  John  an'  her  was  merried,  ony 
gate.  Na,  na,  John  Stewart  never  took 
a  dwaum  'cause  Ma'colm  MacPhail  was 
upo'  the  ro'd." 

Miss  Horn  was  sufficiently  enigmati- 
cal, but  her  meaning  had  at  length,  more 
through  his  own  reflection  than  her  ex- 
position,  dawned  upon   Duncan.      He 


246 


MALCOLM. 


leaped  up  with  a  Gaelic  explosion  of 
concentrated  force,  and  cried,  "  Ta  wo- 
man is  not  pe  no  mothers  to  Tuncan's 
poy !" 

"Huly,  huly,  Mr.  MacPhail!"  inter- 
posed Miss  Horn  with  good-natured  re- 
venge, "it  may  be  naething  but  fowk's 
lees,  ye  ken." 

"  Ta  woman  tat  ta  peoples  will  pe  tell- 
ing lies  of  her  wass  not  pe  ta  mother  of 
her  poy  Malcolm.  Why  tidn't  ta  poy 
tell  her  ta  why  tat  he  wouldn't  pe  haf- 
ing  her?" 

"Ye  wadna  hae  him  spread  an  ill  re- 
port o'  his  ain  mither  ?" 

"Put  she'll  not  pe  his  mother,  and 
you'll  not  pelieve  it,  mem." 

"Ye  canna  priv  that  —  you  nor  him, 
aither." 

"  It  will  pe  more  as  would  kill  her  poy 
to  haf  a  woman  like  tat  to  ta  mother  of 
him." 

"  It  wad  be  nearhan'  as  ill 's  haein'  her 
for  a  wife,"  assented  Miss  Horn,  "but  no 
freely  {quite),''  she  added. 

The  old  man  sought  the  door,  as  if  for 
a  breath  of  air,  but  as  he  went  he  blun- 
dered, and  felt  about  as  if  he  had  just 
been  struck  blind :  ordinarily,  he  walk- 
ed, in  his  own  house  at  least,  as  if  he 
saw  every  inch  of  the  way.  Presently 
he  returned  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"Was  the  bairn  laid  mither-nakit  in- 
till  yer  ban's,  Maister  MacPhail  ?"  asked 
Miss  Horn,  who  had  been  meditating. 

"Och,  no  !  he  wass  his  clo'es  on,"  an- 
swered Duncan. 

"  Hae  ye  ony  o'  them  left  ?"  she  asked 
again. 

"Inteet  not,"  answered  Duncan — "yes, 
inteet  not." 

"Ye  lay  at  the  Salmon,  didna  ye?" 

"Yes,  mem,  and  they  was  coot  to 
her." 

"  Wha  dressed  the  bairn  till  ye  ?" 

"Och!  she'll  trest  him  herself,"  said 
Duncan,  still  jealous  of  the  women  who 
had  nursed  the  child. 

"But  no  aye?"  suggested  Miss  Horn. 

"  Mistress  Partan  will  be  toing  a  coot 
teal  of  tressing  him  sometimes.  Mistress 
Partan  is  a  coot  'oman  when  she  '11  pe 
coot — ferry  coot  when  she  '11  pe  coot." 

Here  Malcolm  entered,  and  Miss  Horn 


told  him  what  she  had  seen  of  the  laird 
and  gathered  concerning  him. 

"That  luiks  ill  for  Phemy,"  remarked 
Malcolm,  when  she  had  described  his 
forlorn  condition.  "She  canna  be  wi' 
'im,  or  he  wadna  be  like  that.  Hae  ye 
onything  by  w'y  o'  coonsel,  mem  ?" 

"  I  wad  coonsel  a  word  wi'  the  laird 
himsel',  gien  't  be  to  be  gotten.  He 
mayna  ken  what  's  happened  her,  but 
he  may  tell  ye  the  last  he  saw  o'  her,  an' 
that  maun  be  mair  nor  ye  ken." 

"  He's  ta'en  sic  a  doobt  o'  me  'at  I'm 
feart  it  '11  be  hard  to  come  at  him,  an' 
still  harder  to  come  at  speech  o'  'im,  for 
whan  he's  frichtit  he  can  hardly  muv  's 
jawbane,  no  to  say  speyk.  I  maun  try, 
though,  and  du  my  best.  Ye  think  he's 
lurkin'  aboot  Fife  Hobse,  div  ye,  mem?" 

"  He's  been  seen  there-awa'  this  while 
— aff  an'  on." 

"Weel,  I  s'  jist  gang  an'  put  on  my 
fisher-claes,  an'  set  oot  at  ance.  I  maun 
baud  ower  to  Scaurnose  first,  though,  to 
lat  them  ken  'at  he's  been  gotten  sicht 
o'.     It  '11  be  but  sma'  comfort,  I  doobt." 

"Malcolm,  my  son,"  interjected  Dun- 
can, who  had  been  watching  for  the  con- 
versation to  afford  him  an  opening,  "if 
you'll  pe  meeting  any  one  will  caal  you 
ta  son  of  tat  woman,  gif  him  a  coot  plow 
in  ta  face,  for  you'll  pe  no  son  of  hers, 
efen  if  she  '11  proof  it — no  more  as  her- 
self If  you'll  pe  her  son,  old  Tuncan 
will  pe  tisown  you  for  efer  and  efermore, 
amen." 

"What's  broucht  you  to  this,  daddie  ?" 
asked  Malcolm,  who,  ill  as  he  liked  the 
least  allusion  to  the  matter,  could  not 
help  feeling  curious,  and  indeed  almost 
amused. 

"  Nefer  you  mind.  Miss  Horn  will  pe 
hafing  coot  reasons  tat  Mistress  Stewart 
'ill  not  can  pe  your  mother." 

Malcolm  turned  to  Miss  Horn. 

"  I've  said  naething  to  Maister  Mac- 
Phail but  what  I've  said  mair  nor  ance 
to  yersel',  laddie,"  she  replied  to  the 
eager  questioning  of  his  eyes.  "Gang 
yer  wa's.  The  trowth  maun  cow  the  lee 
i'  the  lang  rin.     Aff  wi'  ye  to  Blew  Peter." 

When  Malcolm  reached  Scaurnose  he 
found  Phemy's  parents  in  a  sad  state. 
Joseph  had  returned  that  morning  from 


MALCOLM. 


247 


a  fruitless  search  in  a  fresh  direction,  and 
reiterated  disappointment  seemed  to  have 
at  length  overcome  Annie'b  endurance, 
for  she  had  taken  to  her  bed.  Joseph 
was  sitting  before  the  fire  on  a  three- 
legged  stool,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro 
in  a  dull  agony.  When  he  heard  Mal- 
colm's voice  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  and 
a  flash  of  hope  shot  from  his  eyes ;  but 
when  he  had  heard  all  he  sat  down  again 
without  a  word,  and  began  rocking  him- 
self as  before. 

Mrs.  Mair  was  lying  in  the  darkened 
closet,  where,  the  door  being  partly  open, 
she  had  been  listening  with  all  her  might, 
and  was  now  weeping  afresh.  Joseph 
was  the  first  to  speak  :  still  rocking  him- 
self with  hopeless  oscillation,  he  said,  in 
a  strange  muffled  tone  which  seemed  to 
come  from  somewhere  else,  "Gien  I  kent 
she  was  weel  deid  I  wadna  care.  It's 
no  like  a  father  to  be  sittin'  here,  but 
whaur  '11  I  gang  neist  ?  The  wife  thinks 
I  micht  be  duin'  something  :  I  kenna 
what  to  du.  This  last  news  is  waur  nor 
nane.  I  hae  maist  nae  faith  left,  Ma'- 
colm  man  " — and  with  a  bitter  cry  he 
started  to  his  feet — "  I  'maist  dinna  be- 
lieve there's  a  God  ava'.  It  disna  luik 
like  it — dis  't  noo  ?" 

There  came  an  answering  cry  from  the 
closet :  Annie  rushed  out,  half  undress- 
ed, and  threw  her  arms  about  her  hus- 
band. "Joseph  I  Joseph!"  she  said,  in 
a  voice  hard  with  agony — almost  more 
dreadful  than  a  scream — "gien  ye  speyk 
like  that  ye'll  drive  me  mad.  Lat  the 
lassie  gang,  but  lea'  me  my  God." 

Joseph  pushed  her  gently  away,  turn- 
ed from  her,  fell  on  his  knees  and  moaned 
out,  "  O  God !  gien  Thoo  has  her  we  s' 
neither  greit  nor  grum'le,  but  dinna  tak 
the  faith  frae  's." 

He  remained  on  his  knees,  silent,  with 
his  head  against  the  chimney-jamb.  His 
wife  crept  away  to  her  closet. 

"Peter,"  said  Malcolm,  "I'm  gaein' 
afif  the  nicht  to  luik  for  the  laird,  and 
see  gien  he  can  tell  's  onything  aboot 
her  :  wadna  ye  better  come  wi'  me  ?" 

To  the  heart  of  the  father  it  was  as  the 
hope  of  the  resurrection  to  the  world. 
The  same  moment  he  was  on  his  feet 
and  taking  down  his  bonnet ;  the  next 


he  disappeared  in  the  closet,  and  Mal- 
colm heard  the  tinkling  of  the  money  in 
the  lidless  teapot ;  then  out  he  came  with 
a  tear  on  his  face  and  a  glimmer  in  his 
eyes. 

The  sun  was  down,  and  a  bone-pier- 
cing chill,  incarnate  in  the  vague  mist 
that  haunted  the  ground,  assailed  them 
as  they  left  the  cottage.  The  sea  moaned 
drearily.  A  smoke  seemed  to  ascend 
from  the  horizon  half  to  the  zenith — 
something  too  thin  for  cloud,  too  black 
for  vapor  :  above  that  the  stars  were  be- 
ginning to  shine.  Joseph  shivered  and 
struck  his  hands  against  his  shoulders. 
"Care's  cauldrife,"  he  said,  and  strode 
on. 

Almost  in  silence  they  walked  together 
to  the  county-town,  put  up  at  a  little  inn 
near  the  river,  and  at  once  began  to 
make  inquiries.  Not  a  few  persons  had 
seen  the  laird  at  different  times,  but  none 
knew  where  he  slept  or  chiefly  haunted. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  set  out 
in  the  morning,  and  stray  hither  and 
thither  on  the  chance  of  somewhere  find- 
ing him. 


CHAPTER   LXII. 

THE   CUTTLEFISH   AND   THE   CRAB. 

Although  the  better  portion  of  the 
original  assembly  had  forsaken  the  Bail- 
lies'  Barn,  there  was  still  a  regular  gath- 
ering in  it  as  before,  and  if  possible  even 
a  greater  manifestation  of  zeal  for  the 
conversion  of  sinners.  True,  it  might 
not  be  clear  to  an  outsider  that  they  al- 
ways made  a  difference  between  being 
converted  and  joining  their  company,  so 
ready  were  they  to  mix  up  the  two  in 
their  utterances  ;  and  the  results  of  what 
they  counted  conversion  were  sometimes 
such  as  the  opponents  of  their  proceed- 
ings would  have  had  them  :  the  arrogant 
became  still  more  arrogant,  and  the 
greedy  more  greedy ;  the  tongues  of  the 
talkative  went  yet  faster,  and  the  gad- 
abouts were  yet  seldomer  at  home  ;  while 
there  was  such  a  superabundance  of  pri- 
vate judgment  that  it  overflowed  the  cis- 
terns of  their  own  concerns,  and  invaded 
the  walled  gardens  of  other  people's  mo- 


248 


MALCOLM. 


lives.  Yet,  notwithstanding,  the  good 
people  got  good,  if  the  other  sort  got 
evil ;  for  the  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth, 
even  when  the  priest  ascends  the  throne 
of  Augustus.  No  worst  thing  ever  done 
in  the  name  of  Christianity,  no  vilest  cor- 
ruption of  the  Church,  can  destroy  the 
eternal  fact  that  the  core  of  it  is  the  heart 
of  Jesus.  Branches  innumerable  may 
have  to  be  lopped  off  and  cast  into  the 
fire,  yet  the  word  "I  am  the  Vine"  re- 
maineth. 

The  demagogues  had  gloried  in  the 
expulsion  of  such  men  as  Jeames  Gentle 
and  Blue  Peter,  and  were  soon  rejoiced 
by  the  return  of  Bow-o'-meal— after  a 
season  of  backsliding  to  the  flesh-pots 
of  Egypt,  as  they  called  the  services  of 
the  parish  church — to  the  bosom  of  the 
Barn,  where  he  soon  was  again  one  of 
the  chief  amongst  them.  Meantime, 
the  circles  of  their  emanating  influence 
continued  to  spread,  until  at  length  they 
reached  the  lower  classes  of  the  upper 
town,  of  whom  a  few  began  to  go  to  the 
Barn.  Amongst  them,  for  reasons  best 
known  to  herself,  though  they  might  be 
surmised  by  such  as  really  knew  her, 
was  Mrs.  Catanach.  I  do  not  know  that 
she  ever  professed  repentance  and  con- 
version, but  for  a  time  she  attended  pret- 
ty often.  Possibly,  business  considera- 
tions had  something  to  do  with  it.  As- 
suredly, the  young  preacher,  though  he 
still  continued  to  exhort,  did  so  with  fail- 
ing strength,  and  it  was  plain  to  see  that 
he  was  going  rapidly :  the  exercise  of 
the  second  of  her  twin  callings  might  be 
I'cquired.  She  could  not,  however,  have 
been  drawn  by  any  large  expectations  as 
to  the  honorarium.  Still,  she  would  gain 
■what  she  prized  even  more — a  position 
for  the  moment  at  the  heart  of  affairs, 
■with  its  excelling  chances  of  hearing  and 
'Overhearing.  Never  had  a  lover  of  old 
books  half  the  delight  in  fitting  together 
.  a  rare  volume  from  scattered  portions 
/picked  up  in  his  travels  that  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach found  in  vitalizing  stray  remarks, 
arranging  odds  and  ends  of  news,  and 
■  cementing  the  many  fragments,  with  the 
help  of  the  babblings  of  gossip,  into  a 
plausible  whole.  Intellectually  consid- 
ered, her  special  pursuit  was  inasmuch 


the  nobler  as  the  faculties  it  brought  into 
exercise  were  more  delicate  and  various ; 
and  if  her  devotion  to  the  minutiae  of 
biography  had  no  high  end  in  view,  it 
never  caused  her  to  lose  sight  of  what 
ends  she  had  by  involving  her  in  opin- 
ions, prejudices  or  disputes :  however  she 
might  break  out  at  times,  her  general 
policy  was  to  avoid  quarreling.  There 
was  a  strong  natural  antagonism  between 
her  and  the  Partaness,  but  she  had  nev- 
er shown  the  least  dislike  to  her,  and 
that  although  Mrs.  Findlay  had  never 
lost  an  opportunity  of  manifesting  hers 
to  the  midwife.  Indeed,  having  gained 
a  pretext  by  her  ministrations  to  Lizzy 
when  overcome  by  the  suggestions  of  the 
dog-sermon,  Mrs.  Catanach  had  assayed 
an  approach  to  her  mother,  and  not  with- 
out success.  After  the  discovery  of  the 
physical  cause  of  Lizzy's  ailment,  how- 
ever, Mrs.  Findlay  had  sought,  by  might 
of  rude  resolve,  to  break  loose  from  the 
encroaching  acquaintanceship,  but  had 
found,  as  yet,  that  the  hard-shelled  crab 
was  not  a  match  for  the  glutinous  cuttle- 
fish. 

On  the  evening  of  the  Sunday  follow- 
ing the  events  related  in  the  last  chapter, 
Mrs.  Catanach  had,  not  without  difficulty, 
persuaded  Mrs.  Findlay  to  accompany 
her  to  the  Baillies'  Barn  with  the  prom- 
ise of  a  wonderful  sermon  from  a  new 
preacher  —  a  ploughman  on  an  inland 
farm.  That  she  had  an  object  in  desir- 
ing her  company  that  night  may  seem 
probable  from  the  conversation  which 
arose  as  they  plodded  their  way  thither 
along  the  sands. 

"  I  h'ard  a  queer  tale  aboot  Meg  Horn 
at  Duff  Harbor  the  ither  day,"  said  the 
midwife,  speaking  thus  disrespectfully 
both  to  ease  her  own  heart  and  to  call 
forth  the  feelings  of  her  companion,  who 
also,  she  knew,  disliked  Miss  Horn. 

"Ay  !     An*  what  micht  that  be  ?" 

"  But  she's  maybe  a  freen'  o'  yours, 
Mistress  Findlay  ?  Some  fowk  likes  her, 
though  I  canna  say  I'm  ane  o'  them." 

"Freen'  o'  mine!"  exclaimed  the  Par- 
taness. "We  gree  like  twa  bills  [Int/is) 
\   the  same  park." 

"  I  wadna  wonner,  for  they  tcllt  me  'at 
saw  her  fechtin'  i'  the  High  street  wi'  a 


MALCOLM. 


249 


muckle  loon  nearhan'  as  big  's  hersel' ; 
an'  haith  !  but  Meg  had  the  best  o'  't, 
an'  dang  him  intil  the  gutter,  an'  maist 
fellt  him.     An'  that's  Meg  Horn  !" 

"She  had  been  at  the  drink.  But  I 
never  h'ard  it  laid  till  her  afore." 

"Didna  ye,  than  .''  Weel,  I'm  no  say- 
in'  onything  •  that's  what  I  h'ard." 

"Ow!  it's  like  eneuch.  She  was  bul- 
lyraggin'  at  me  nae  langer  ago  nor  thes- 
treen  ;  but  I  doobt  I  sent  her  awa'  wi'  a 
flech  [flfd]  in  her  lug." 

"Whaten  a  craw  had  she  to  pluck  wi' 
you,  no  ?" 

"Ow,  fegs !  ye  wad  hae  ta'en  her  for 
a  thief-catcher,  and  me  for  the  thief. 
She  wad  threpe  [insist)  'at  1  bude  to 
hae  keepit  some  o'  the  duds  'at  happit 
Ma'colm  MacPhail,  the  reprobat,  whan 
first  he  cam  to  the  Seaton — a  puir  scraich- 
in'  brat,  as  reid  's  a  bilet  lobster.  Wae 
's  me  'at  ever  he  was  creatit !  It  jist 
drives  me  horn-daft  to  think  'at  ever  he 
got  the  breist  o'  me.  'At  he  sud  sair 
[serve]  me  sae !  But  I  s'  hae  a  grip  o' 
'im  yet,  or  my  name  's  no — what  they 
ca'  me." 

"  It's  the  w'y  o'  the  warl',  Mistress 
Findlay.  What  cud  ye  expec'  o'  ane 
born  in  sin  an'  brought  furth  in  ineequi- 
ty  ?" — a  stock  phrase  of  Mrs.  Catanach's, 
glancing  at  her  profession,  and  embracing 
nearly  the  whole  of  her  belief. 

"  It's  a  true  word.  The  mair's  the 
peety  he  sud  hae  hed  the  milk  o'  an 
honest  wuman  upo'  the  tap  o'  that !" 

"  But  what  cud  the  auld  runt  be  efter  ? 
What  was  //"^r  business  wi'  't  ?  She  never 
did  onything  for  the  bairn." 

"  Na,  no  she  /  She  never  had  the 
chance,  guid  or  ill.  Ow !  doobtless  it 
wad  be  anent  what  they  ca'  the  eeden- 
tryfeein'  o'  'im  to  the  leddy  0'  Gersefell. 
She  had  sent  her.  She  micht  hae  waled 
[choscii]  a  mair  welcome  messenger,  an' 
sent  her  a  better  eeran'.  But  she  made 
little  o'  me." 

"  Ye  had  naething  o'  the  kin',  I  s'  wad." 

"  Never  a  threid.  There  luas  a  twal- 
hunner  shift  upo'  the  bairn,  rowt  roon 
'im  like  deid-claes.  Gien  't  had  been 
but  the  Lord's  wuU  !  It  gart  me  wonner 
at  the  time,  for  that  wasna  hoo  a  bairn 
'at  had  been  caret  for  sud  be  cled." 


"Was  there  name  or  mark  upo'  't  ?" 
asked  Cuttlefish. 

"  Nane  :  there  was  but  the  place  whaur 
the  reid  ingrain  had  been  pykit  oot,"  an- 
swered-Crab. 

"An'  what  cam  o'  the  shift  ?" 

"  Ow  !  I  jist  made  it  doon  for  a  bit  sark 
to  the  bairn  whan  he  grew  to  be  rinnin' 
aboot.  'At  ever  I  sud  hae  ta'en  steik  in 
claith  for  sic  a  deil's  buckie  !  To  me  'at 
was  a  mither  till  'im  !  The  Lord  haud 
me  ohn  gane  mad  whan  I  think  o'  't !" 

"An'  syne  for  Lizzy — "  began  Mrs. 
Catanach.  prefacing  fresh  remark. 

But  at  her  name  the  mother  flew  into 
such  a  rage  that,  fearful  of  scandal,  see- 
ing it  was  the  Sabbath  and  they  were  on 
their  way  to  public  worship,  her  com- 
panion would  have  exerted  all  her  pow- 
ers of  oiliest  persuasion  to  appease  her. 
But  if  there  was  one  thing  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach did  not  understand,  it  was  the  heart 
of  a  mother  :  "  Hoots,  Mistress  Findlay ! 
Fowk'U  hear  ye.  Haud  yer  tongue,  I 
beg.  She  may  dee  i'  the  strae  for  me. 
I  s'  never  put  han'  to  the  savin'  o'  her, 
or  her  bairn  aither,"  said  the  midwife, 
thinking  thus  to  pacify  her. 

Then,  like  the  eruption  following  mere 
volcanic  unrest,  out  brake  the  sore-heart- 
ed woman's  wrath.  And  now  at  length 
the  crustacean  was  too  much  for  the  mol- 
lusk.  She  raved  and  scolded  and  abused 
Mrs.  Catanach,  till  at  last  she  was  driven 
to  that  final  resource — the  airs  of  an  in- 
jured woman.  She  turned  and  walked 
back  to  the  upper  town,  while  Mrs.  Find- 
lay went  on  to  take  what  share  she  might 
in  the  worship  of  the  congregation. 

Mrs.  Mair  had  that  evening  gone  once 
more  to  the  Baillies'  Barn  in  her  hus- 
band's absence,  for  the  words  of  unbe- 
lief he  had  uttered  in  the  Job-like  agony 
of  his  soul  had  haunted  the  heart  of  his 
spouse  until  she  too  felt  as  if  she  could 
hardly  believe  in  a  God.  Few  know 
what  a  poor  thing  their  faith  is  till  the 
trial  comes.  And  in  the  weakness  con- 
sequent on  protracted  suffering  she  had 
begun  to  fancy  that  the  loss  of  Phemy 
was  a  punishment  upon  them  for  desert- 
ing the  conventicle.  Also  the  school- 
master was  under  an  interdict,  and  that 
looked  like  a  judgment  too.     She  mitst 


250 


MALCOLM. 


find  some  prop  for  the  faith  that  was 
now  shaking  hke  a  reed  in  the  wind. 
So  to  the  BailUes'  Barn  she  had  once 
more  gone. 

The  tempest  which  had  convulsed  Mrs. 
Findlay's  atmosphere  had  swept  its  va- 
pors with  it  as  it  passed  away  ;  and  when 
she  entered  the  cavern  it  was  with  an 
unwonted  inchnation  to  be  friendly  all 
round.  As  Fate  would  have  it,  she  un- 
wittingly took  her  place  by  Mrs.  Mair. 
whom  she  had  not  seen  since  she  gave 
Lizzy  shelter.  When  she  discovered  who 
her  neighbor  was  she  started  away  and 
stared  ;  but  she  had  had  enough  of  quar- 
reling for  the  evening,  and  besides,  had 
not  had  time  to  bar  her  door  against  the 
angel  Pity,  who  suddenly  stepped  across 
the  threshold  of  her  heart  with  the  sight 
of  Mrs.  Mair's  pale  thin  cheeks  and  tear- 
reddened  eyes.  As  suddenly,  however, 
an  indwelling  demon  of  her  own  house, 
whose  name  was  Envy,  arose  from  the 
ashes  of  her  hearth  to  meet  the  white- 
robed  visitant :  Phemy,  poor  little  harm- 
less thing  !  was  safe  enough — who  would 
harm  a  hair  of  her  ? — but  Lizzy  ?  And 
this  woman  had  taken  in  the  fugitive 
from  honest  chastisement !  She  would 
yet  have  sought  another  seat,  but  the 
congregation  rose  to  sing,  and  her  neigh- 
bor's offer  of  the  use  in  common  of  her 
psalm-book  was  enough  to  quiet  for  the 
moment  the  gaseous  brain  of  the  turbu- 
lent woman.  She  accepted  the  kindness, 
and,  the  singing  over,  did  not  refuse  to 
look  on  the  same  page  with  her  daugh- 
ter's friend  while  the  ploughman  read, 
with  fitting  simplicity,  the  parable  of  the 
Prodigal  Son.  It  touched  something  in 
both,  but  a  different  something  in  each. 
Strange  to  say,  neither  applied  it  to  her 
own  case,  but  each  to  her  neighbor's.  As 
the  reader  uttered  the  words  "  was  lost 
and  is  found,"  and  ceased,  each  turned 
to  the  other  with  a  whisper.  Mrs.  Mair 
persisted  in  hers,  and  the  other — which 
was  odd  enough — yielded  and  listened. 
"Wad  the  tale  baud  wi'  lassies  as  weel  's 
laddies.  Mistress  Findlay,  div  ye  think?" 
said  Mrs.  Mair. 

"Ow,  surely,"  was  the  response,  "it 
maun  du  that.  There  's  no  respec'  o' 
persons  wi'  Him.     There's  no  a  doobt 


but  yer  Phemy  '11  come  hame  to  ye  safe 
an'  soon'." 

"  I  was  thinkin'  aboot  Lizzy,"  said  the 
other,  a  little  astonished ;  and  then  the 
prayer  began,  and  they  had  to  be  silent. 

The  sermon  of  the  ploughman  was 
both  dull  and  sensible — an  excellent  va- 
riety where  few  of  the  sermons  were 
either — but  it  made  little  impression  on 
Mrs.  Findlay  or  Mrs.  Mair. 

As  they  left  the  cave  together  in  the 
crowd  of  issuing  worshipers  Mrs.  Mair 
whispered  again.  "  I  wad  invete  ye  ower, 
but  ye  wad  be  wantin'  Lizzy  hame,  an' 
I  can  ill  spare  the  comfort  o'  her  the 
noo,"  she  said  with  the  cunning  of  a 
dove. 

"An'  what  comes  o'  me?"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Findlay,  her  claws  out  in  a  moment 
where  her  personal  consequence  was 
touched. 

"Ye  wadna  surely  tak  her  frae  me  a' 
at  ance .''"  pleaded  Mrs.  Mair.  "Ye 
micht  lat  her  bide,  jist  till  Phemy  comes 
hame  ;  an'  syne — " 

But  there  she  broke  down,  and  the 
tempest  of  sobs  that  followed  quite  over- 
came the  heart  of  Mrs.  Findlay.  She 
was,  in  truth,  a  woman  like  another ; 
only,  being  of  the  crustacean  order,  she 
had  not  yet  swallowed  her  skeleton,  as 
all  of  us  have  to  do  more  or  less,  sooner 
or  later,  the  idea  of  that  scaffolding  be- 
ing that  it  should  be  out  of  sight.  With 
the  best  commonplaces  at  her  command 
she  sought  to  comfort  her  companion ; 
walked  with  her  to  the  foot  of  the  red 
path  ;  found  her  much  more  to  her  mind 
than  Mrs.  Catanach ;  seemed  inclined 
to  go  with  her  all  the  way,  but  suddenly 
stopped,  bade  her  good-night,  and  left 
her. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 
MISS    HORN   .'VND    LORD   LOSSIE. 

Notwithstanding  the  quarrel,  Mrs. 
Catanach  did  not  return  without  having 
gained  something  :  she  had  learned  that 
Miss  Horn  had  been  foiled  in  what  she 
had  no  doubt  was  an  attempt  to  obtain 
proof  that  Malcolm  was  not  the  son  of 
Mrs.    Stewart.      The    discovery   was    a 


MALCOLM. 


2;i 


grateful  one,  for  who  could  have  told 
but  there  might  be  something  in  exist- 
ence to  connect  him  with  another  origin 
than  she  and  Mrs.  Stewart  would  assign 
him  ? 

The  next  day  the  marquis  returned. 
Almost  his  first  word  was  the  desire  that 
Malcolm  should  be  sent  to  him.  But 
nobody  knew  more  than  that  he  was 
missing  ;  whereupon  he  sent  for  Duncan. 
T^  old  man  explained  his  boy's  absence, 
and  as  soon  as  he  was  dismissed  took  his 
way  to  the  town  and  called  upon  Miss 
Horn.  In  half  an  hour  the  good  lady 
started  on  foot  for  Duff  Harbor,  It  was 
already  growing  dark,  but  there  was  one 
feeling  Miss  Horn  had  certainly  been 
created  without,  and  that  was  fear. 

As  she  approached  her  destination, 
tramping  eagerly  along  in  a  half-cloudy, 
half-starlit  night,  with  a  damp  east  wind 
blowing  cold  from  the  German  Ocean, 
she  was  startled  by  the  swift  rush  of 
something  dark  across  the  road  before 
her.  It  came  out  of  a  small  wood  on  the 
left  toward  the  sea,  and  bolted  through  a 
hedge  on  the  right. 

"  Is  that  you,  laird  ?"  she  cried,  but 
there  came  no  answer. 

She  walked  straight  to  the  house  of 
her  lawyer-friend,  and  after  an  hour's 
rest  the  same  night  set  out  again  for  Port- 
lossie,  which  she  reached  in  safety  by  her 
bed-time. 

Lord  Lossie  was  very  accessible.  Like 
Shakespeare's  Prince  Hal,  he  was  so 
much  interested  in  the  varieties  of  the 
outcome  of  human  character  that  he 
would  not  willingly  lose  a  chance  of 
seeing  "more  man."  If  the  individual 
proved  a  bore,  he  would  get  rid  of  him 
without  remorse — if  amusing,  he  would 
contrive  to  prolong  the  interview.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  undeveloped  human- 
ity somewhere  in  his  lordship,  one  of 
whose  indications  was  this  spectacular 
interest  in  his  kind.  As  to  their  bygone 
histor)',  how  they  fared  out  of  his  sight 
or  what  might  become  of  them,  he  nev- 
er gave  a  thought  to  anything  of  the  kind 
— never  felt  the  pull  of  one  of  the  bonds 
of  brotherhood,  laughed  at  them  the  mo- 
ment they  were  gone,  or,  if  a  woman's 
story  had  touched  him,  wiped  his  eyes 


with  an  oath,  and  thought  himself  too 
good  a  fellow  for  this  world. 

Since  his  retirement  from  the  more  in- 
dolent life  of  the  metropolis  to  the  quiet- 
er and  more  active  pursuits  of  the  coun- 
tr}',  his  character  had  bettered  a  little,  in- 
asmuch as  it  was  a  shade  more  access- 
ible to  spiritual  influences  :  the  hard  soil 
had  in  a  few  places  cracked  a  hair's 
breadth,  and  lay  thus  far  open  to  the 
search  of  those  sun-rays  which,  when 
they  find  the  human  germ — that  is,  the 
conscience — straightway  begin  to  sting 
it  into  life.  To  this  betterment  the  com- 
pany of  his  daughter  had  chiefly  con- 
tributed ;  for,  if  she  was  little  more  de- 
veloped in  the  right  direction  than  him- 
self, she  was  far  less  developed  in  the 
wrong,  and  the  play  of  affection  between 
them  was  the  divinest  influence  that  could 
as  yet  be  brought  to  bear  upon  either  ;  but 
certain  circumstances  of  late  occurrence 
had  had  a  share  in  it,  occasioning  a  re- 
vival of  old  memories  which  had  a  con- 
siderably sobering  effect  upon  him. 

As  he  sat  at  breakfast  about  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  morning  after  his  return, 
one  of  his  English  servants  entered  with 
the  message  that  a  person  calling  herself 
Miss  Horn,  and  refusing  to  explain  her 
business,  desired  to  see  his  lordship  for 
a  few  minutes. 

"Who  is  she  ?"  asked  the  marquis. 

The  man  did  not  know. 

"What  is  she  like?" 

"An  odd-looking  old  lady,  my  lord, 
and  very  oddly  dressed." 

"  Show  her  into  the  next  room  :  I  shall 
be  with  her  directly." 

Finishing  his  cup  of  coffee  and  pea- 
fowl's Qgg  with  deliberation,  while  he 
tried  his  best  to  recall  in  what  connec- 
tion he  could  have  heard  the  name  be- 
fore, the  marquis  at  length  sauntered 
into  the  morning  room  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  with  the  Times  of  the  day  before 
yesterday,  just  arrived,  in  his  hand. 
There  stood  his  visitor  waiting  for  him 
— such  as  my  reader  knows  her,  black 
and  gaunt  and  grim — in  a  bay-window, 
whose  light  almost  surrounded  her,  so 
that  there  was  scarcely  a  shadow  about 
her,  and  yet  to  the  eyes  of  the  marquis 
she  seemed  wrapped  in  shadows.     Mys- 


252 


MALCOLM. 


terious  as  some  sybil,  whose  being  held 
secrets  the  first  whisper  of  which  had 
turned  her  old,  but  made  her  immortal, 
she  towered  before  him  with  "her  eyes 
fixed  upon  him,  and  neither  spoke  nor 
moved. 

"To  what  am  I  indebted — "  began  his 
lordship. 

But  Miss  Horn  speedily  interrupted 
his  courtesy.  "Own  to  nae  debt,  my 
lord,  till  ye  ken  what  it's  for,"  she  said, 
without  a  tone  or  inflection  to  indicate  a 
pleasantry. 

"Good!"  returned  his  lordship,  and 
waited  with  a  smile.  She  promised 
amusement,  and  he  was  ready  for  it,  but 
it  hardly  came. 

"  Ken  ye  that  han'  o'  wreet,  my  lord  ?" 
she  inquired,  sternly  advancing  a  step 
and  holding  out  a  scrap  of  paper  at  arm's 
length,  as  if  presenting  a  pistol. 

The  marquis  took  it.  In  his  counte- 
nance curiosity  had  mingled  with  the 
expectation.  He  glanced  at  it.  A  sha- 
dow swept  over  his  face,  but  vanished 
instantly  :  the  mask  of  impervious  non- 
expression  which  a  man  of  his  breeding 
always  knows  how  to  assume  was  already 
on  his  visage. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  said 
quietly,  with  just  the  slightest  catch  in 
his  voice. 

"  I  got  it,  my  lord,  whaur  there's  mair 
like  it." 

"Show  me  them." 

"  I  hae  shawn  ye  plenty  for  a  swatch 
{^pattern),  my  lord." 

"  You  refuse  ?"  said  the  marquis  ;  and 
the  tone  of  the  question  was  like  the  first 
frosty  puff  that  indicates  a  change  of 
weather. 

"Idiv,  my  lord,"  she  answered  im- 
perturbably. 

"  If  they  are  not  my  property,  why  did 
you  bring  me  this  ?" 

"Are  they  your  property,  my  lord?" 

"This  is  my  handwriting." 

"Ye  alloo  that?" 

"Certainly,  my  good  woman.  You 
did  not  expect  me  to  deny  it  ?" 

"God  forbid,  my  lord!  But  will  ye 
uphaud  yerscl'  the  lawfu'  heir  to  the  de- 
ceased? It  lies  atween  ycr  lordship  an' 
mysel'  i'  the  mean  time." 


He  sat  down,  holding  the  scrap  of  pa- 
per between  his  finger  and  thumb.  "  I 
will  buy  them  of  you,"  he  said  coolly 
after  a  moment's  thought,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  looked  keenly  at  her. 

The  form  of  reply  which  first  arose  in 
Miss  Horn's  indignant  soul  never  reach- 
ed her  lips.  "  It's  no  my  trade,"  she  an- 
swered with  the  coldness  of  suppressed 
wrath.     "1  dinna  deal  in  sic  waurs." 

"What  do  you  deal  in,  then?"  as]^d 
the  marquis. 

"In  trouth  an'  fair  play,  my  lord,"  she 
answered,  and  was  again  silent. 

So  was  the  marquis  for  some  moments, 
but  was  the  first  to  resume :  "  If  you 
think  the  papers  to  which  you  refer  of 
the  least  value,  allow  me  to  tell  you  it 
is  an  entire  mistake." 

"  There  was  ane  thoucht  them  o'  vail- 
ue,"  replied  Miss  Horn — and  her  voice 
trembled  a  little,  but  she  hemmed  away 
her  emotion — "for  a  time  at  least,  my 
lord ;  an'  for  her  sake  they're  o'  vailue 
to  me,  be  they  what  they  may  to  yer 
lordship.  But  wha  can  tell  ?  Scots  law 
may  put  life  intill  them  yet,  an'  gie  them 
a  vailue  to  somebody  forbye  me." 

"What  I  mean,  my  good  woman,  is, 
that  if  you  think  the  possession  of  those 
papers  gives  you  any  hold  over  me  which 
you  can  turn  to  your  advantage,  you  are 
mistaken." 

"  Guid  forgie  ye,  my  lord  !  My  advan- 
tage !  I  thoucht  yer  lordship  had  been 
mair  o'  a  gentleman  by  this  time,  or  I 
wad  hae  sent  a  lawyer  till  ye,  in  place 
o'  comin'  mysel'." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"  It's  plain  ye  cudna  hae  been  muckle 
o'  a  gentleman  ance,  my  lord ;  an'  it 
seems  ye're  no  muckle  mair  o'  ane  yet, 
for  a'  ye  maun  hae  come  throu'  i'  the 
mean  time." 

"  I  trust  you  have  discovered  nothing 
in  those  letters  to  afford  ground  for  such 
a  harsh  judgment,"  said  the  marquis  se- 
riously. 

"  Na,  no  a  word  i'  them,  but  the  mair 
oot  o'  them.  Ye  winna  threep  upo'  me 
'at  a  man  wha  lea's  a  woman,  lat  alane 
his  wife — or  ane  'at  he  ca's  his  wife — to 
a'  the  pains  o'  a  mithcr  an'  a'  the  penal- 
ties o'  an  Gonmerricd  ane,  ohn  ever  speirt 


MALCOLM. 


253 


hoo  she  wan  throu'  them,  preserves  the 
richt  he  was  born  till  o'  bein'  coontit  a 
gentleman  ?  Ony  gait,  a  maiden  wu- 
man  like  mysel',  wha  has  nae  feelin's, 
will  not  alloo  him  the  teetle.  Guid  for- 
bid it!" 

"You  are  plain-spoken." 

"I'm  plain  made,  my  lord.  I  ken 
guid  frae  ill,  an'  little  forbye,  but  aye 
fand  that  eneuch  to  sair  my  turn.  Aither 
thae  letters  o'  yer  lordship's  are  ilk  ane 
o'  them  a  lee,  or  ye  desertit  yer  wife  an' 
bairn — " 

"Alas  I"  interrupted  the  marquis  with 
some  emotion,  "she  deserted  me,  and 
took  the  child  with  her." 

"Wha  ever  daurt  sic  a  lee  upo'  my 
Grizel  ?"  shouted  Miss  Horn,  clenching 
and  shaking  her  bony  fist  at  the  world 
in  general.  "  It  was  but  a  fortnicht  or 
three  weeks,  as  near  as  I  can  judge, 
efter  the  birth  o'  your  bairn,  that  Grizel 
Cam'ell — " 

"Were  you  with  her  then  ?"  again  in- 
terrupted the  marquis,  in  a  tone  of  sor- 
rowful interest. 

"No,  my  lord,  I  was  not.  Gien  I  had 
been,  I  wadna  be  upo'  sic  an  eeran'  this 
day.  For  nigh  twenty  lang  years  "at  her 
an'  me  keepit  hoose  thegither,  till  she 
dee'd  i'  my  airms,  never  a  day  was  she 
cot  o'  my  sicht,  or  ance — " 

The  marquis  leaped  rather  than  start- 
ed to  his  feet,  exclaiming,  "What  in  the 
name  of  God  do  you  mean,  woman  ?" 

"  I  kenna  what  ye  mean,  my  lord.  I 
ken  'at  I'm  but  tellin'  ye  the  trouth  whan 
I  tell  ye  'at  Grizel  Cam'ell,  up  to  that 
day  —  an'  that's  little  ower  sax  month 
sin'  syne — " 

"  Good  God  !"  cried  the  marquis ;  "and 
here  have  I —  Woman,  are  you  speak- 
ing the  truth  ?  If — "  he  added  threat- 
eningly, and  paused. 

"Leein'  's  what  I  never  cud  bide,  my 
lord,  an'  I'm  no  likely  to  tak  till  't  at 
my  age,  wi'  the  lang-to-come  afore  me." 

The  marquis  strode  several  times  up 
and  down  the  floor. 

"  I'll  give  you  a  thousand  pounds  for 
those  letters,"  he  said,  suddenly  stopping 
in  front  of  Miss  Horn. 

"They're  o'  nae  sic  worth,  my  lord — I 
hae  yer  ain  word  for  't.     But  I  carena 


the  leg  o'  a  spin-maggie  [daddy-long- 
legs). Pairt  wi'  them  I  will  not,  'cep' 
to  him  'at  proves  himsel'  the  richtfu' 
heir  to  them." 

"A  husband  inherits  from  his  wife." 

"  Or  maybe  her  son  micht  claim  first . 
I  dinna  ken.  But  there  's  lawyers,  my 
lord,  to  redd  the  doobt." 

"  Her  son  ?    You  don't  mean — " 

"  I  div  mean  Malcolm  MacPhail,  my 
lord." 

"God  in  heaven  !" 

"His  name  's  mair  i'  yer  mou'  nor  i' 
yer  hert,  I'm  doobtin',  my  lord.  Ye  a' 
cry  oot  upo'  Him — the  men  o'  ye — whan 
ye're  in  ony  tribble  or  want  to  gar  wo- 
men believe  ye.  But  I'm  thinkin'  He 
peys  but  little  heed  to  sic  prayers." 

Thus  Miss  Horn  ;  but  Lord  Lossie  was 
striding  up  and  down  the  room,  heedless 
of  her  remarks,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
his  arms  straight  by  his  sides  and  his 
hands  clenched.  "  Can  you  prove  what 
you  say?"  he  asked  at  length,  half  stop- 
ping and  casting  an  almost  wild  look  at 
Miss  Horn,  then  resuming  his  hurried 
walk.  His  voice  sounded  hollow,  as  if 
sent  from  the  heart  of  a  gulf  of  pain. 

"No,  my  lord,"  answered  Miss  Horn. 

"  Then  what  the  devil,"  roared  the 
marquis,  "do  you  mean  by  coming  to 
me  with  such  a  cock-and-bull  story  ?" 

"  There's  naither  cock-craw  nor  bill- 
rair  intill  it,  my  lord.  I  come  to  you  wi' 
't  i'  the  houp  ye'll  help  to  redd  [clear]  it 
up,  for  I  dinna  weel  ken  what  we  can 
du,  wantin'  ye.  There's  but  ane  kens 
a'  the  trouth  o'  't,  an'  she's  the  awfu'est 
leear  oot  o'  purgatory — no  'at  I  believe 
in  purgator)',  but  it's  the  langer  an'  licht- 
er  word  to  mak'  use  o'." 

"Who  is  she  ?" 

"By  name  she's  Bawby  Cat'nach,  an' 
by  natur'  she's  wat  I  tell  ye ;  an'  gien  I 
had  her  atween  my  twa  een,  it's  what  I 
wad  say  to  the  face  o'  her." 

"  It  can't  be  MacPhail.  Mrs.  Stewart 
says  he  is  hcr%ox\,  and  the  woman  Cat- 
anach  is  her  chief  witness  in  support  of 
the  claim." 

"The  deevil  has  a  better  to  the  twa  o' 
them,  my  lord,  as  they'll  ken  some  day. 
His  claim  'ill  want  nae  supportin'.  Din- 
na ye  believe  a  word  Mistress  Stewart,  or 


254 


MALCOLM. 


Bawby  Catanach  aither,  wad  say  to  ye. 
Gien  he  be  Mistress  Stewart's,  wha  was 
his  father?" 

"You  think  that  he  resembles  my  late 
brother :  he  has  a  look  of  him,  I  must 
confess." 

"  He  has,  my  lord.  But  onybody  'at 
kent  the  mither  o'  'm,  as  you  an'  me 
did,  my  lord,  wad  see  anither  lik'ness 
as  weel." 

"  I  grant  nothing." 

"Ye  grant  Grizel  Cam'ell  yer  wife,  my 
lord,  whan  ye  own  to  that  wreet.  Gien 
't  war  naething  but  a  written  promise 
an'  a  bairn  to  follow,  it  wad  be  merriage 
eneuch  i'  this  cuintry,  though  it  mayna 
be  in  cuintries  no  sae  ceevileest." 

"  But  all  that  is  nothing  as  to  the  child. 
Why  do  you  fix  on  this  young  fellow  ? 
You  say  you  can't  prove  it." 

"  But  ye  cud,  my  lord,  gien  ye  war  as 
set  upo'  justice  as  I  am.  Gien  ye  win- 
na  muv  i'  the  maitter,  we  s'  manage  to 
hirple  [go  halting)  throu',  wantin'  ye, 
though,  wi'  the  Lord's  help." 

The  marquis,  who  had  all  this  time 
continued  his  walk  up  and  down  the 
floor,  stood  still,  raised  his  head  as  if 
about  to  speak,  dropped  it  again  on  his 
chest,  strode  to  the  other  window,  turn- 
ed, strode  back  and  said,  "This  is  a  very 
serious  matter." 

"  It's  a'  that,  my  lord,"  replied  Miss 
Horn. 

"You  must  give  me  a  little  time  to 
turn  it  over,"  said  the  marquis. 

"  Isna  twenty  year  time  eneuch,  my 
lord?"  rejoined  Miss  Horn. 

"  I  swear  to  you  that  till  this  moment 
I  believed  her  twenty  years  in  her  grave. 
My  brother  sent  me  word  that  she  died 
in  childbed,  and  the  child  with  her.  I 
was  then  at  Brussels  with  the  duke." 

Miss  Horn  made  three  great  strides, 
caught  the  marquis's  hand  in  both  hers, 
and  said,  "  I  praise  God  ye're  an  honest 
man,  my  lord." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  the  marquis,  and 
seized  the  advantage.  "You'll  hold  your 
tongue  about  this  ?"  he  added,  half  in- 
quiring, half  requesting. 

"As  lang  as  I  see  rizzon,  my  lord — nae 
langer,"  answered  Miss  Horn,  dropping 
his  hand.    "Richt  maun  be  dune." 


"Yes,  if  you  can  tell  what  right  is,  and 
avoid  wrong  to  others." 

"  Richt  's  richt,  my  lord,"  persisted 
Miss  Horn.  "  I'll  hae  nae  modifi-quali- 
fications." 

His  lordship  once  more  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room,  every  now  and 
then  taking  a  stolen  glance  at  Miss  Horn 
— a  glance  of  uneasy  anxious  questioning. 
She  stood  rigid,  a  very  Lot's  wife  of  im- 
mobility, her  eyes  on  the  ground,  wait- 
ing what  he  would  say  next. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  whether  I  could  trust 
her,"  he  said  at  length,  as  if  talking 
aloud  to  himself. 

Miss  Horn  took  no  notice. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak,  woman  ?"  cried 
the  marquis  with  irritation.  How  he 
hated  perplexity ! 

"  Ye  speired  nae  queston,  my  lord ;  an' 
gien  ye  had,  my  word  has  ower  little 
weicht  to  answer  wi'." 

"Can  I  trust  you,  woman  ?  I  want  to 
know,"  said  his  lordship  angrily. 

"  No  far'er,  my  lord,  nor  to  du  what  I 
think's  richt." 

"  I  want  to  be  certain  that  you  will  do 
nothing  with  those  letters  until  you  hear 
from  me  ?"  said  the  marquis,  heedless 
of  her  reply. 

"I'll  du  naething  afore  the  morn. 
Far'er  nor  that  I  winna  pledge  mysel'," 
answered  Miss  Horn,  and  with  the  words 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"Hadn't  you  better  take  this  with 
you?"  said  the  marquis,  offering  the  lit- 
tle note,  which  he  had  carried  all  the 
time  between  his  finger  and  thumb. 

"There's  nae  occasion:  I  hae  plenty 
wantin'  that.  Only  dinna  lea'  't  lyin' 
aboot." 

"There's  small  danger  of  that,"  said 
the  marquis,  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  moment  she  was  out  of  the  way 
he  went  up  to  his  own  room,  and,  flinging 
the  door  to,  sat  down  at  the  table  and 
laid  his  arms  and  head  upon  it.  The 
acrid  vapor  of  tears  that  should  have 
been  wept  long  since  rose  to  his  eyes : 
he  dashed  his  hand  across  them,  as  if 
ashamed  that  he  was  not  even  yet  out 
of  sight  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
His  own  handwriting,  of  a  period  when 
all  former  sins  and  defilements  seemed 


MALCOLM. 


25s 


about  to  be  burned  clean  from  his  soul 
by  the  fire  of  an  honest  and  virtuous 
love,  had  moved  him  ;  for  genuine  had 
been  his  affection  for  the  girl  who  had 
risked  and  lost  so  much  for  him.  It 
was  with  no  evil  intent — for  her  influence 
had  rendered  him  for  the  time  incapable 
of  playing  her  false,  but  in  part  from 
reasons  of  prudence,  as  he  persuaded 
himself,  for  both  their  sakes,  and  in  part 
led  astray  by  the  zest  which  minds  of  a 
certain  cast  derive  from  the  secresy  of 
pleasure — that  he  had  persuaded  her  to 
the  unequal  yoking  of  honesty  and  se- 
cresy. But  suddenly  called  away  and 
sent  by  the  prince  on  a  private  mission 
soon  after  their  marriage,  and  before 
there  was  any  special  reason  to  appre- 
hend consequences  that  must  lead  to 
discovery,  he  had,  in  the  difficulties  of 
the  case  and  the  hope  of  a  speedy  re- 
turn, left  her  without  any  arrangement 
for  correspondence  ;  and  all  he  had  ever 
heard  of  her  more  was  from  his  brother, 
then  the  marquis — a  cynical  account  of 
the  discovery  of  her  condition,  followed 
almost  immediately  by  a  circumstantial 
one  of  her  death  and  that  of  her  infant. 
He  was  deeply  stung,  and  the  thought 
of  her  sufferings  in  the  false  position 
where  his  selfishness  had  placed  her 
haunted  him  for  a  time  beyond  his  en- 
durance ;  for  of  all  things  he  hated  suffer- 
ing, and  of  all  sufferings  remorse  is  the 
worst.  Hence,  where  a  wiser  man  might 
have  repented  he  rushed  into  dissipation, 
whose  scorching  wind  swept  away  not 
only  the  healing  dews  of  his  sorrow,  but 
the  tender  buds  of  new  life  that  had  begun 
to  mottle  the  withering  tree  of  his  nature. 
The  desire  after  better  things,  which  had, 
under  his  wife's  genial  influence,  begun 
to  pass  into  eftbrt,  not  only  vanished  ut- 
terly in  the  shameless  round  of  evil  dis- 
traction, but  its  memory  became  a  mock- 
ery to  the  cynical  spirit  that  arose  behind 
the  vanishing  angel  of  repentance  ;  and 
he  was  soon  in  the  condition  of  the  man 
from  whom  the  exorcised  demon  had 
gone  but  to  find  his  seven  worse  com- 
panions. 

Reduced  at  length  to  straits,  almost  to 
want,  he  had  married  the  mother  of 
Florimel,  to  whom  for  a  time  he  endeav- 


ored to  conduct  himself  in  some  meas- 
ure like  a  gentleman.  For  this  he  had 
been  rewarded  by  a  decrease  in  the  rate 
of  his  spiritual  submergence,  but  his  be- 
draggled nature  could  no  longer  walk 
without  treading  on  its  own  plumes  ;  and 
the  poor  lady  who  had  bartered  herself 
for  a  lofty  alliance  speedily  found  her 
mistake  a  sad  one  and  her  life  uninter- 
esting, took  to  repining  and  tears,  alien- 
ated her  husband  utterly,  and  died  of  a 
sorrow  almost  too  selfish  to  afford  even 
a  suggestion  of  purifying  efficacy.  But 
Florimel  had  not  inherited  immediately 
from  her  mother,  so  far  as  disposition 
was  concerned  :  in  these  latter  days  she 
had  grown  very  dear  to  him,  and  his 
love  had  once  more  turned  his  face  a 
little  toward  the  path  of  righteousness. 
Ah  !  when  would  he  move  one  step  to 
set  his  feet  in  it  ? 

And  now,  after  his  whirlwind  harvest 
of  evil  knowledge,  bitter  disappointment 
and  fading  passion,  in  the  gathering  mists 
of  gray  hopelessness,  and  the  far  worse 
mephitic  air  of  indifference,  he  had  come 
all  of  a  sudden  upon  the  ghastly  dis- 
covery that,  while  overwhelmed  with  re- 
morse for  the  vanished  past,  the  present 
and  the  future  had  been  calling  him,  but 
had  now  also — that  present  and  that  fu- 
ture— glided  from  him,  and  folded  their 
wings  of  gloom  in  the  land  of  shadows. 
All  the  fierce  time  he  might  have  been 
blessedly  growing  better,  instead  of  heap- 
ing sin  upon  sin  until  the  weight  was 
too  heavy  for  repentance ;  for  while  he 
had  been  bemoaning  a  dead  wife,  that 
wife  had  been  loving  a  renegade  hus- 
band. And  the  blame  of  it  all  he  did 
not  fail  to  cast  upon  that  Providence  in 
which  until  now  he  had  professed  not  to 
believe  :  such  faith  as  he  was  yet  capa- 
ble of  awoke  in  the  form  of  resentment. 
He  judged  himself  hardly  done  by,  and 
the  few  admonitory  sermons  he  had  hap- 
pened to  hear,  especially  that  in  the  cave 
about  the  dogs  going  round  the  walls  of 
the  New  Jerusalem,  returned  upon  him 
— not  as  warnings,  but  as  old  threats 
now  rapidly  approaching  fulfillment. 

Lovely  still  peered  the  dim  face  of  his 
girl-wife  upon  him  through  the  dusty  lat- 
tice of  his  memory  ;  and  a  mighty  cor- 


256 


MALCOLM. 


roboration  of  Malcolm's  asserted  birth 
lay  in  the  look  upon  his  face  as  he  hur- 
ried aghast  from  the  hermit's  cell ;  for 
not  on  his  first  had  the  marquis  seen  that 
look  and  in  those  very  circumstances. 
And  the  youth  was  one  to  be  proud  of — 
one  among  a  million.  But  there  were 
other  and  terrible  considerations. 

Incapable  as  he  naturally  was  of  do- 
ing justice  to  a  woman  of  Miss  Horn's 
inflexibility  in  right,  he  could  yet  more 
than  surmise  the  absoluteness  of  that  in- 
flexibility—  partly  because  it  was  hostile 
to  himself,  and  he  was  in  the  mood  to 
believe  in  opposition  and  harshness,  and 
deny,  not  providence,  but  goodness. 
Convenient  half  -  measures  would,  he 
more  than  feared,  find  no  favor  with 
her.  But  she  had  declared  her  inabil- 
ity to  prove  Malcolm  his  son  without 
the  testimony  of  Mrs.  Catanach,  and  the 
latter  was  even  now  representing  him 
as  the  son  of  Mrs.  Stewart.  That  Mrs. 
Catanach  at  the  same  time  could  not  be 
ignorant  of  what  had  become  of  the  child 
born  to  him  he  was  all  but  certain  ;  for  on 
that  night  when  Malcolm  and  he  found 
her  in  the  wizard's  chamber  had  she  not 
proved  her  strange  story — of  having  been 
carried  to  that  very  room  blindfolded, 
and  after  sole  attendance  on  the  birth 
of  a  child  —  whose  mother's  features, 
even  in  her  worst  pains,  she  had  not 
once  seen — in  like  manner  carried  away 
again  ?  Had  she  not  proved  the  story 
true  by  handing  him  the  ring  she  had 
drawn  from  the  lady's  finger,  and  sewn, 
for  the  sake  of  future  identification,  into 
the  lower  edge  of  one  of  the  bed-cur- 
tains?— which  ring  was  a  diamond  he 
had  given  his  wife  from  his  own  finger 
when  they  parted.  She  probably  be- 
lieved the  lady  to  have  been  Mrs.  Stew- 
art, and  the  late  marquis  the  father  of 
the  child.  Should  he  see  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach ?     And  what  then  ? 

He  found  no  difficulty  in  divining  the 
reasons  which  must  have  induced  his 
brother  to  provide  for  the  secret  ac- 
couchement of  his  wife  in  the  wizard's 
chamber,  and  for  the  abduction  of  the 
child,  if  indeed  his  existence  was  not  ow- 
ing to  Mrs.  Catanach's  love  of  intrigue. 
The  elder  had  judged  the  younger  broth- 


er unlikely  to  live  long,  and  had  expect- 
ed his  own  daughter  to  succeed  himself. 
But  now  the  younger  might  any  day  mar- 
ry the  governess  and  legahze  the  child  ; 
and  the  elder  had  therefore  secured  the 
disappearance  of  the  latter,  and  the  be- 
lief of  his  brother  in  the  death  of  both. 

Lord  Lossie  was  roused  from  his  rev- 
ery  by  a  light  tap  at  the  door,  which  he 
knew  for  Malcolm's  and  answered  with 
admission. 

When  he  entered  his  master  saw  that 
a  change  had  passed  upon  him,  and  for  a 
moment  believed  Miss  Horn  had  already 
broken  faith  with  him  and  found  com- 
munication with  Malcolm.  He  was  soon 
satisfied  of  the  contrary,  however,  but 
would  have  found  it  hard  indeed  to  un- 
derstand, had  it  been  represented  to  him, 
that  the  contentment,  almost  elation,  of 
the  youth's  countenance  had  its  source 
in  the  conviction  that  he  was  not  the  son 
of  Mrs.  Stewart. 

"So  here  you  are  at  last?"  said  the 
marquis. 

"Ay,  my  lord." 

"  Did  you  find  Stewart  ?" 

"Ay  did  we  at  last,  my  lord;  but  we 
made  naething  by  't,  for  he  kent  noucht 
aboot  the  lassie,  an'  'maist  lost  his  wuts 
at  the  news." 

"No  great  loss,  that,"  said  the  mar- 
quis.    "Go  and  send  Stoat  here." 

"Is  there  ony  hurry  aboot  Stoat,  my 
lord?"  asked  Malcolm, hesitating.  "I  had 
a  word  to  say  to  yer  lordship  mysel'." 

"Make  haste,  then." 

"I'm  some  fain  to  gang  back  to  the 
fishin',  my  lord,''  said  Malcolm.  "This 
is  ower-easy  a  life  for  me.  The  deil  wins 
in  for  the  liftin'  o'  the  sneck.  Forbye, 
my  lord,  a  life  wi'oot  aithcr  danger  or 
wark  's  some  wersh-like  [insipid):  it 
wants  saut,  my  lord.  But  a'  that's  nai- 
ther  here  nor  there,  I  ken,  sae  king  's  ye 
want  me  oot  o'  the  hoose,  my  lord." 

"Who  told  you  I  wanted  you  out  of 
the  house  ?  By  Jove  !  I  should  have 
made  shorter  work  of  it.  What  put  that 
in  your  head?     Why  should  I  ?"      •• 

"Gien  yer  lordship  kens  nane,  sma' 
occasion  hae  I  to  haud  a  rizzon  to  yer 
han'.  I  thoucht —  But  the  thoucht  it- 
scl  's  impidence." 


MALCOLM. 


257 


"You  young  fool!  You  thought,  be- 
cause I  came  upon  you  as  I  did  in  the 
garret  the  other  night  —  Bah !  you 
damned  ape  !  As  if  I  could  not  trust — 
Pshaw  !" 

For  the  moment  Malcolm  forgot  how 
angry  his  master  had  certainly  been, 
although,  for  Florimel's  sake  doubtless, 
he  had  restrained  himself;  and  fancied 
that  in  the  faint  light  of  the  one  candle 
he  had  seen  little  to  annoy  him,  and  had 
taken  the  storm  and  its  results,  which  were 
indeed  the  sole  reason,  as  a  sufficient  one 
for  their  being  alone  together.  Every- 
thing seemed  about  to  come  right  again. 
But  his  master  remained  silent. 

"  I  houp  my  leddy's  weel,"  ventured 
Malcolm  at  length. 

"Quite  well.  She's  with  Lady  Bellair 
in  Edinburgh." 

Lady  Bellair  was  the  bold  -  faced 
countess. 

"  I  dinna  like  her,"  said  Malcolm. 

"Who  the  devil  asked  you  to  like 
her  ?"  said  the  marquis.  But  he  laughed 
as  he  said  it. 

"  I  beg  yer  lordship's  pardon,"  return- 
ed Malcolm.  "  I  said  it  or  I  kent.  It 
was  nane  o'  my  business  wha  my  leddy 
was  wi'." 

"  Certainly  not.  But  I  don't  mind  con- 
fessing that  Lady  Bellair  is  not  one  I 
should  choose  to  give  authority  over 
Lady  florimel.  You  have  some  regard 
for  your  young  mistress,  I  know,  Mal- 
colm." 

"  I  wad  dee  for  her,  my  lord." 

"  That's  a  common  assertion,"  said  the 
marquis. 

"No  wi'  fisher-fowk :  I  kenna  hoo  it 
may  be  wi'  your  fowk,  my  lord." 

"Well,  even  with  us  it  means  some- 
thing. It  implies  at  least  that  he  who 
uses  it  would  risk  his  life  for  her  whom 
he  wishes  to  believe  it.  But  perhaps  it 
may  mean  more  than  that  in  the  mouth 
of  a  fisherman  ?  Do  you  fancy  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  devoticai — real  devotion, 
I  mean — self-sacrifice,  you  know  ?" 

"  I  daurna  doobt  it,  my  lord." 

"Without  fee  or  hope  of  reward  ?" 
17 


"There  maun  be  some  cawpable  o'  't, 
my  lord,  or  what  for  sud  the  warl'  be  ? 
What  ither  sud  haud  it  ohn  been  de- 
stroyt  as  Sodom  was  for  the  want  o*  the 
ten  richteous  ?  There  maun  be  saut 
whaur  corruption  hasna  the  thing  a'  its 
ain  gait." 

"You  certainly  have  pretty  high  no- 
tions of  things,  MacPhail.  For  my  part, 
I  can  easily  enough  imagine  a  man  risk- 
ing his  life  ;  but  devoting  it !  That's  an- 
other thing  altogether." 

"There  maun  be  'at  wad  du  a'  'at  cud 
be  dune,  my  lord." 

"  What,  for  instance,  would  you  do  for 
Lady  Florimel,  now  ?  You  say  you  would 
die  for  her:  what  does  dying  mean  on  a 
fisherman's  tongue  ?" 

"It  means  a'  thing,  my  lord — short  o' 
ill.  I  wad  sterve  for  her,  but  I  wadna 
steal ;  I  wad  fecht  for  her,  but  I  wadna 
lee." 

"Would  you  be  her  servant  all  your 
days?     Come,  now !" 

"  Mair  nor  willin'ly,  my  lord,  gien  she 
wad  only  hae  me  an'  keep  me." 

"  But  suppose  you  came  to  inherit  the 
Kirkbyres  property?" 

"My  lord,"  said  Malcolm  solemnly, 
"that's  a  puir  test  to  put  me  till :  it  gangs 
for  naething.  I  wad  raither  clean  my 
leddy's  butes  frae  mornin'  to  nicht  nor 
be  the  son  o'  that  wuman  gien  she  war 
a  born  duchess.  Try  me  wi'  something 
worth  yer  lordship's  mou'." 

But  the  marquis  seemed  to  think  he 
had  gone  far  enough  for  the  present. 
With  gleaming  eyes  he  rose,  took  his 
withered  love-letter  from  the  table,  put 
it  in  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  saying, 
"  Well,  find  out  for  me  what  this  is  they're 
about  with  the  schoolmaster,"  walked  to 
the  door. 

"I  ken  a'  aboot  that,  my  lord,"  an- 
swered Malcolm,  "ohn  speirt  at  ony- 
body." 

Lord  Lossie  turned  from  the  door,  or- 
dered him  to  bring  his  riding-coat  and 
boots,  and,  ringing  the  bell,  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  Stoat  to  saddle  the  bay  mare. 


IPJLI^T    2^11. 


CHAPTER   LXIV. 
THE   LAIRD   AND   HIS   MOTHFR. 

WHEN  Malcolm  and  Joseph  set  out 
from  Duff  Harbor  to  find  the  laird, 
they  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  gone 
in  search  of  him  :  all  in  their  power  was 
to  seek  the  parts  where  he  was  occasion- 
ally seen,  in  the  hope  of  chancing  upon 
him ;  and  they  wandered  in  vain  about 
the  woods  of  Fife  House  all  that  week, 
returning  disconsolate  every  evening  to 
the  litde  inn  on  the  banks  of  the  Wan 
Water.  Sunday  came  and  went  without 
yielding  a  trace  of  him ;  and,  almost  in 
despair,  they  resolved,  if  unsuccessful 
the  next  day,  to  get  assistance  and  or- 
ganize a  search  for  him.  Monday  pass- 
ed like  the  days  that  had  preceded  it, 
and  they  were  returning  dejectedly  down 
the  left  bank  of  the  Wan  Water  in  the 
gloaming,  and  nearing  a  part  where  it  is 
hemmed  in  by  precipitous  rocks  and  is 
very  narrow  and  deep,  crawling  slow  and 
black  under  the  lofty  arch  of  an  ancient 
bridge  that  spans  it  at  one  leap,  when 
suddenly  they  caught  sight  of  a  head 
peering  at  them  over  the  parapet.  They 
dared  not  run  for  fear  of  terrifying  him 
if  it  should  be  the  laird,  and  hurried 
quietly  to  the  spot.  But  when  they  reach- 
■  ed  the  end  of  the  bridge  its  round  back 
;was  bare  from  end  to  end.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  river  the  trees  came  close  up, 
.and  pursuit  was  hopeless  in  the  gathering 
darkness. 

"  Laird,  laird !  they've  ta'en  awa' 
Phemy,  an'  we  dinna  ken  whaur  to  luik 
for  her,"  cried  the  poor  father  aloud. 

Almost  the  same  instant,  and  as  if  he 
.had  issued  from  the  ground,  the  laird 
stood  before  them.  The  men  started 
back  with  astonishment — soon  changed 
into  pity,  for  there  was  light  enough  to 
see  how  miserable  the  poor  fellow  look- 
ed. Neither  exposure  nor  privation  had 
thus  wrought  upon  him  :  he  was  simply 
dying  of  fear.  Having  greeted  Joseph 
358 


with  embarrassment,  he  kept  glancing 
doubtfully  at  Malcolm,  as  if  ready  to  run 
on  his  least  movement.  In  few  words 
Joseph  explained  their  quest — with  trem- 
bling voice  and  tears  that  would  not  be 
denied  enforcing  the  tale.  Ere  he  had 
done  the  laird's  jaw  had  fallen  and  fur- 
ther speech  was  impossible  to  him.  But 
by  gestures  sad  and  plain  enough  he  in- 
dicated that  he  knew  nothing  of  her,  and 
had  supposed  her  safe  at  home  with  her 
parents.  In  vain  they  tried  to  persuade 
him  to  go  'back  with  them,  promising 
every  protection :  for  sole  answer  he 
shook  his  head  mournfully. 

There  came  a  sudden  gust  of  wind 
among  the  branches.  Joseph,  little  used 
to  trees  and  their  ways  with  the  wind, 
turned  toward  the  sound,  and  Malcolm 
unconsciously  followed  his  movement. 
When  they  turned  again  the  laird  had 
vanished,  and  they  took  their  way  home- 
ward in  sadness. 

What  passed  next  with  the  laird  can 
be  but  conjectured.  It  came  to  be  well 
enough  known  afterward  where  he  had 
been  hiding ;  and  had  it  not  been  dusk 
as  they  came  down  the  river-bank  the 
two  men  might,  looking  up  to  the  bridge 
from  below,  have  had  it  suggested  to 
them.  For  in  the  half-spandrel  wall  be- 
tween the  first  arch  and  the  bank  they 
might  havd  spied  a  small  window  look- 
ing down  on  the  sullen,  silent  gloom, 
foam-flecked  with  past  commotion,  that 
crept  languidly  away  from  beneath.  It 
belonged  to  a  little  vaulted  chamber  in 
the  bridge,  devised  by  some  vanished  lord 
as  a  kind  of  summer-house — long  neg- 
lected, but  having  in  it  yet  a  mouldering 
table,  a  broken  chair  or  two  and  a  rough 
bench.  A  little  path  led  steep  from  the 
end  of  the  parapet  down  to  its  hidden 
door.  It  was  now  used  only  by  the  game- 
keepers for  traps  and  fishing-gear  and 
odds  and  ends  of  things,  and  was  gen- 
crallj   supposed  to  be  locked  up.     The 


MALCOLM. 


259 


laird  had,  however,  found  it  open,  and 
his  refuge  in  it  had  been  connived  at  by 
one  of  the  men,  who,  as  they  heard  after- 
ward, had  given  him  the  key  and  assist- 
ed him  in  carrying  out  a  plan  he  had  de- 
vised for  barricading  the  door.  It  was 
from  this  place  he  had  so  suddenly  risen 
at  the  call  of  Blue  Peter,  and  to  it  he  had 
as  suddenly  withdrawn  again — to  pass  in 
silence  and  loneliness  through  his  last 
purgatorial  pain.* 

Mrs.  Stewart  was  sitting  in  her  draw- 
ing-room alone  :  she  seldom  had  visitors 
at  Kirkbyres — not  that  she  liked  being 
alone,  or  indeed  being  there  at  all,  for 
she  would  have  lived  on  the  Continent, 
but  that  her  son's  trustees,  partly  to  in- 
dulge their  own  aversion  to  her,  taking 
upon  them  a  larger  discretionary  power 
than  rightly  belonged  to  them,  kept  her 
too  straitened,  which  no  doubt  in  the 
recoil  had  its  share  in  poor  Stephen's 
misery.  It  was  only  after  scraping  for  a 
whole  year  that  she  could  escape  to  Paris 
or  Homburg,  where  she  was  at  home. 
There  her  sojourn  was  determined  by  her 
good  or  ill  fortune  at  faro. 

What  she  meditated  over  her  knitting 
by  the  firelight  —  she  had  put  out  her 
candles  —  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  per- 
haps unwholesome  to  think :  there  are 
souls  to  look  into  which  is,  to  our  dim 
eyes,  like  gazing  down  from  the  verge 
of  one  of  the  Swedenborgian  pits. 

But  much  of  the  evil  done  by  human 
beings  is  as  the  evil  of  evil  beasts :  they 
know  not  what  they  do  —  an  excuse 
which,  except  in  regard  to  the  past,  no 
man  can  make  for  himself,  seeing  the 
very  making  of  it  must  testify  its  false- 
hood. 

She  looked  up,  gave  a  cry  and  started 
to  her  feet :  Stephen  stood  before  her, 
halfway  between  her  and  the  door.  Re- 
vealed in  a  flicker  of  flame  from  the  fire, 
he  vanished  in  the  following  shade,  and 
for  a  moment  she  stood  in  doubt  of  her 
seeing  sense.  But  when  the  coal  flash- 
ed again  there  was  her  son,  regarding 
her  out  of  great  eyes  that  looked  as  if 

*  Com'  io  fui  dentro,  in  un  bogliente  vetro 
Gittato  mi  sarei  per  rinfrescarmi, 
Tant'  era  ivi  lo'ncendio  senza  metro. 

Del  Purgatorio,  xxvii.  49. 


they  had  seen  death.  A  ghastly  air 
hung  about  him,  as  if  he  had  just  come 
back  from  Hades,  but  in  his  silent  bear- 
ing there  was  a  sanity,  even  dignity, 
which  strangely  impressed  her.  He  came 
forward  a  pace  or  two,  stopped,  and  said, 
"  Dinna  be  frichtit,  mem.  I'm  come. 
Sen'  the  lassie  hame  an'  du  wi'  me  as 
ye  like.  I  canna  baud  aff  o'  me.  But  I 
think  I'm  deein',  an'  ye  needna  misguide 
me." 

His  voice,  although  it  trembled  a  little, 
was  clear  and  unimpeded,  and,  though ' 
weak  in  its  modulation,  manly. 

Something  in  the  woman's  heart  re- 
sponded. Was  it  motherhood  or  the 
deeper  godhead .''  Was  it  pity  for  the 
dignity  housed  in  the  crumbling  clay,  or 
repentance  for  the  son  of  her  womb  ? 
Or  was  it  that  sickness  gave  hope,  and 
she  could  afford  to  be  kind  ? 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Ste- 
phen," she  said,  more  gently  than  he 
had  ever  heard  her  speak. 

Was  it  an  agony  of  mind  or  of  body, 
or  was  it  but  a  flickering  of  the  shadows 
upon  his  face  ?  A  moment,  and  he  gave 
a  half-  choked  shriek  and  fell  on  the 
floor.  His  mother  turned  from  him  with 
disgust  and  rang  the  bell.  "Send  Tom 
here,"  she  said. 

An  elderly,  hard-featured  man  came. 

"Stephen  is  in  one  of  his  fits,"  she 
said. 

The  man  looked  about  him :  he  could 
see  no  one  in  the  room  but  his  mistress. 

"There  he  is,"  she  continued,  point- 
ing to  the  floor.  "  Take  him  away.  Get 
him  up  to  the  loft  and  lay  him  in  the 
hay." 

The  man  lifted  his  master  like  an  un- 
wieldy log  and  carried  him,  convulsed, 
from  the  room. 

Stephen's  mother  sat  down  again  by 
the  fire  and  resumed  her  knitting. 


CHAPTER   LXV. 
THE   laird's   vision. 

Malcolm  had  just  seen  his  master  set 
out  for  his  solitary  ride  when  one  of  the 
maids  informed  him  that  a  man  from 
Kirkbyres  wanted  him.     Hiding  his  re- 


26o 


MALCOLM. 


luctance,  he  went  with  her  and  found 
Tom,  who  was  Mrs.  Stewart's  grieve  and 
had  been  about  the  place  all  his  days. 

"Mr.  Stephen's  come  hame,  sir,"  he 
said,  touching  his  bonnet,  a  civility  for 
which  Malcolm  was  not  grateful. 

"It's  no  possible,"  returned  Malcolm. 
"I  saw  him  last  nicht." 

"He  cam  aboot  ten  o'clock,  sir,  an' 
hed  a  turn  o'  the  fa'in'  sickness  o'  the 
spot.  He's  verra  ill  the  noo,  an'  the 
mistress  sent  me  ower  to  speir  gien  ye 
wad  obleege  her  by  gaein'  to  see  him." 

"  Has  he  ta'en  till  's  bed  ?"  asked 
Malcolm. 

"We  pat  him  intill  't,  sir.  He's  ravin' 
mad,  an'  I'm  thinkin'  he's  no  far  frae  his 
hin'er  en'." 

"I'll  gang  wi'  ye  direckly,"  said  Mal- 
colm. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  riding  fast 
along  the  road  to  Kirkbyres,  neither  with 
much  to  say  to  the  other,  for  Malcolm 
distrusted  every  one  about  the  place,  and 
Tom  was  by  nature  taciturn. 

"What  garred  them  sen'  for  me,  div 
ye  ken  ?"  asked  Malcolm  at  length  when 
they  had  gone  about  halfway. 

"He  cried  oot  upo'  ye  i'  the  nicht," 
answered  Tom. 

When  they  arrived  Malcolm  was  shown 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Stew- 
art met  him  with  red  eyes.  "  Will  you 
come  and  see  my  poor  boy  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  wuU  du  that,  mem.     Is  he  verra  ill  ?" 

"Very.  I'm  afraid  he  is  in  a  bad 
way." 

She  led  him  to  a  dark,  old-fashioned 
chamber,  rich  and  gloomy.  There,  sunk 
in  the  down  of  a  huge  bed  with  carved 
ebony  posts,  lay  the  laird,  far  too  ill  to 
be  incommoded  by  the  luxury  to  which 
he  was  unaccustomed.  His  head  kept 
tossing  from  side  to  side  and  his  eyes 
seemed  searching  in  vacancy. 

"  Has  the  doctor  been  to  see  'im,  mem  ?" 
asked  Malcolm. 

"Yes,  but  he  says  he  can't  do  anything 
for  him." 

"  Wha  waits  upon  'im,  mem  ?" 

"One  of  the  maids  and  myself" 

"  I'll  jist  bide  wi'  'im." 

"That  will  be  very  kind  of  you." 

"I  s'  bide  wi'  'im  till  I  see  'im  oot  o' 


this,  ae  w'y  or  ither,"  added  Malcolm, 
and  sat  down  by  the  bedside  of  his  poor 
distrustful  friend.  There  Mrs.  Stewart 
left  him. 

The  laird  was  wandering  in  the  thorny 
thickets  and  slimy  marshes  which,  haunt- 
ed by  the  thousand  misshapen  horrors 
of  delirium,  beset  the  gates  of  life.  That 
one  so  near  the  light  and  slowly  drifting 
into  it  should  lie  tossing  in  hopeless  dark- 
ness !  Is  it  that  the  delirium  falls,  a  veil 
of  love,  to  hide  other  and  more  real  ter- 
rors? 

His  eyes  would  now  and  then  meet 
those  of  Malcolm  as  they  gazed  tender- 
ly upon  him,  but  the  living  thing  that 
looked  out  of  the  windows  was  darken- 
ed and  saw  him  not.  Occasionally  a 
word  would  fall  from  him,  or  a  murmur 
of  half-articulation  float  up  like  the  sound 
of  a  river  of  souls  ;  but  whether  Malcolm 
heard,  or  only  seemed  to  hear,  something 
like  this,  he  could  not  tell,  for  he  could 
not  be  certain  that  he  had  not  himself 
shaped  the  words  by  receiving  the  bab- 
ble into  the  moulds  of  the  laird's  cus- 
tomary thought  and  speech  :  "  I  dinna 
ken  whaur  I  cam  frae — I  kenna  whaur 
I'm  gaein'  till. — Eh,  gien  He  wad  but 
come  oot  an'  shaw  Himsel' ! — O  Lord ! 
tak  the  deevil  aff  o'  my  puir  back. — O 
Father  o'  lichts !  gar  him  tak  the  hump 
wi'  him.  I  hae  no  fawvor  for't,  though 
it's  been  my  constant  compainion  this 
mony  a  lang." 

But  in  general  he  only  moaned,  and 
after  the  words  thus  heard  or  fashioned 
by  Malcolm  lay  silent  and  nearly  still  for 
an  hour. 

All  the  waning  afternoon  Malcolm  sat 
by  his  side,  and  neither  mother,  maid  nor 
doctor  came  near  them. 

"  Dark  wa's  an'  no  a  breath  !"  he  mur- 
mured or  seemed  to  murmur  again.  "  Nae 
gerse  nor  flooers  nor  bees  !  I  hae  na  room 
for  my  hump,  an'  I  canna  lie  upo'  't,  for 
that  wad  kill  me.  WuU  I  ever  ken  whaur 
I  cam  frae  ?  The  wine's  unco  guid.  Gie 
me  a  drap  mair,  gien  ye  please.  Lady 
Horn. — I  thought  the  grave  was  a  better 
place.  I  hae  lain  saftcr  afore  I  dce'd. — 
Phcmy  !  Phemy  !  Rin,  Phemy,  rin  ! 
I  s'  bide  wi'  them  this  time.  Ye  rin, 
Phemy  !" 


MALCOLM, 


261 


As  it  grew  dark  the  air  turned  very 
chill,  and  snow  began  to  fall  thick  and 
fast.  Malcolm  laid  a  few  sticks  on  the 
smouldering  peat  -  fire,  but  they  were 
damp  and  did  not  catch.  All  at  once 
the  laird  gave  a  shriek,  and  crying  out, 
"  Mither  !  mither  !"  fell  into  a  fit  so  vio- 
lent that  the  heavy  bed  shook  with  his 
convulsions.  Malcolm  held  his  wrists 
and  called  aloud.  No  one  came,  and, 
bethinking  himself  that  none  could  help, 
he  waited  in  silence  for  what  would  soon 
follow. 

The  fit  passed  quickly,  and  he  lay 
quiet.  The  sticks  had  meantime  dried, 
and  suddenly  they  caught  fire  and  blazed 
up.  The  laird  turned  his  face  toward 
the  flame ;  a  smile  came  over  it ;  his 
eyes  opened  wide,  and  with  such  an  ex- 
pression of  seeing  gazed  beyond  Mal- 
colm that  he  turned  his  in  the  same 
direction. 

"  Eh,  the  bonny  man  !  The  bonny 
man  !"  murmured  the  laird. 

But  Malcolm  saw  nothing,  and  turn- 
ed again  to  the  laird :  his  jaw  had  fall- 
en, and  the  light  was  fading  out  of  his 
face  like  the  last  of  a  sunset.  He  was 
dead. 

Malcolm  rang  the  bell,  told  the  wo- 
man who  answered  it  what  had  taken 
place,  and  hurried  from  the  house,  glad 
at  heart  that  his  friend  was  at  rest. 

He  had  ridden  but  a  short  distance 
when  he  was  overtaken  by  a  boy  on  a 
fast  pony,  who  pulled  up  as  he  neared 
him. 

"Whaurare  ye  for?"  asked  Malcolm. 

"I'm  gaein'  for  Mistress  Cat'nach," 
answered  the  boy. 

"Gang  yer  w'ys  than,  an'  dinna  haud 
the  deid  waitin',"  said  Malcolm  with  a 
shudder. 

The  boy  cast  a  look  of  dismay  behind 
him  and  galloped  off. 

The  snow  still  fell  and  the  night  was 
dark.  Malcolm  spent  nearly  two  hours 
on  the  way,  and  met  the  boy  returning, 
who  told  him  that  Mrs.  Catanach  was 
not  to  be  found. 

His  road  lay  down  the  glen,  past  Dun- 
can's cottage,  at  whose  door  he  dismount- 
ed, but  he  did  not  find  him.  Taking  the 
bridle  on  his  arm,  he  walked  by  his  horse 


the  rest  of  the  way.  It  was  about  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  night  very  dark.  As 
he  neared  the  house,  he  heard  Duncan's 
voice.  "  Malcolm,  my  son  !  Will  it  pe 
your  ownself  ?"  it  said. 

"It  wuU  that,  daddy,"  answered  Mal- 
colin. 

The  piper  was  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree, 
with  the  snow  settling  softly  upon  him. 

"  But  it's  ower  cauld  for  ye  to  be  sittin' 
there  i'  the  snaw,  an'  the  mirk  tu,"  added 
Malcolm. 

"  Ta  tarkness  will  not  be  ketting  to  ta 
inside  of  her,"  returned  the  seer.  "Ah, 
my  poy  !  where  ta  light  kets  in,  ta  tark- 
ness will  pe  ketting  in  too.  This  now, 
your  whole  pody  will  pe  full  of  tarkness, 
as  ta  Piple  will  say,  and  Tuncan's  pody 
tat  will  pe  full  of  ta  light."  Then  with 
suddenly  changed  tone  he  said,  "  Listen, 
Malcolm,  my  son !  She'll  pe  ferry  un- 
easy till  you'll  wass  pe  come  home." 

"What's  the  maitter  noo,  daddy  ?"  re- 
turned Malcolm.  "Onythingwrangaboot 
the  hoose  ?" 

"Something  will  pe  wrong,  yes,  put 
she'll  not  can  tell  where.  No,  her  pody 
will  not  pe  full  of  light !  For  town  here, 
in  ta  curset  Lowlands,  ta  sight  has  peen 
almost  cone  from  her,  my  son.  It  will 
now  pe  no  more  as  a  co  creeping  troo' 
her,  and  she'll  nefer  see  plain  no  more 
till  she'll  pe  come  pack  to  her  own 
mountains." 

"The  puir  laird's  gane  back  to  his," 
said  Malcolm.  "I  won'er  gien  he  kens 
yet,  or  gien  he  gangs  speirin'  at  ilk  ane 
he  meets  gien  he  can  tell  him  whaur  he 
cam  frae.    He's  mad  nae  mair,  onygait." 

"How?  Will  he  pe  not  tead?  Ta  poor 
lairt !     Ta  poor  maad  lairt !" 

"  Ay,  he's  deid :  maybe  that's  what'll 
be  troublin'  yer  sicht,  daddy." 

"No,  my  son.  Ta  maad  lairt  was  not 
ferry  maad,  and  if  he  was  maad  he  was 
not  paad,  and  it  was  not  to  ta  plame  of 
him  :  he  was  coot  always,  howefer." 

"He  wass  that,  daddy." 

"But  it  will  pe  something  ferry  paad, 
and  it  will  pe  efer  troubling  her  speerit. 
When  she'll  pe  take  ta  pipes  to  pe  amus- 
ing herself,  and  will  plow  '  Till  an  crodh 
a'  Dhonnachaidh'  ('Turn  the  Cows,  Dun- 
can'), out  will  pe  come '  Cumhadh  an  fhir 


262 


MALCOLM. 


mhoir'  ('The  Lament  of  the  Big  Man'). 
Aal  is  not  well,  my  son." 

"Weel,  dinna  distress  yersel',  daddy. 
Lat  come  what  wull  come.  Foreseein' 
's  no  forefen'in'.  Ye  ken  yersel'  at  mony 
's  the  time  the  seer  has  broucht  the  thing 
on  by  tryin'  to  haud  it  aff." 

"  It  will  be  true,  my  son.  Put  it  would 
aalways  haf  come." 

"Nae  doubt.  Sae  ye  jist  come  in  wi' 
me,  daddy,  an'  sit  doon  by  the  ha'  fire, 
an'  I'll  come  to  ye  as  sune  's  I've  been 
to  see  'at  the  maister  disna  want  me. 
But  ye'U  better  come  up  wi'  me  to  my 
room  first,"  he  went  on'  "  for  the  mais- 
ter disna  like  to  see  me  in  onything  but 
the  kilt." 

"And  why  will  he  not  pe  in  ta  kilts 
aal  as  now  ?" 

"I  hae  been  ridin',  ye  ken,  daddy,  an' 
the  trews  fits  the  saiddle  better  nor  the 
kilts." 

"  She'll  not  pe  knowing  tat.  Old  Al- 
lister,  your  creat —  her  own  crandfather, 
was  ta  pest  horseman  ta  worlt  efer  saw, 
and  he'll  nefer  pe  hafing  ta  trews  to  his 
own  leeks  nor  ta  saddle  to  his  horse's 
pack.  He'll  chust  make  his  men  pe 
strap  on  an  old  plaid,  and  he'll  be  kive 
a  chump,  and  away  they  wass,  horse 
and  man,  one  peast,  aal  two  of  tern  poth 
together." 

Thus  chatting,  they  went  to  the  stable, 
and  from  the  stable  to  the  house,  where 
they  met  no  one,  and  went  straight  up 
to  Malcolm's  room,  the  old  man  making 
as  little  of  the  long  ascent  as  Malcolm 
himself. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 
THE   CRY   FROM    THE    CHAMBER. 

Brooding — if  a  man  of  his  tempera- 
ment may  ever  be  said  to  brood — over 
the  sad  history  of  his  young  wife  and  the 
prospects  of  his  daughter,  the  marquis 
rode  over  fields  and  through  gates — he 
never  had  been  one  to  jump  a  fence  in 
cold  blood — till  the  darkness  began  to 
fall ;  and  the  bearings  of  his  perplexed 
position  came  plainly  before  him. 

First  of  all,  Malcolm  acknowledged 
and    the   date    of   his    mother's   death 


known,  what  would  Florimel  be  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world?  Supposing  the  world 
deceived  by  the  statement  that  his  mother 
died  when  he  was  born,  where  yet  was 
the  future  he  had  marked  out  for  her  ? 
He  had  no  money  to  leave  her,  and  she 
must  be  helplessly  dependent  on  her 
brother. 

Malcolm,  on  the  other  hand,  might 
make  a  good  match,  or,  with  the  advan- 
tages he  could  secure  him  in  the  army, 
still  better  in  the  navy,  well  enough  push 
his  way  in  the  world. 

Miss  Horn  could  produce  no  testimony, 
and  Mrs.  Catanach  had  asserted  him  to 
be  the  son  of  Mrs.  Stewart.  He  had  seen 
enough,  however,  to  make  him  dread 
certain  possible  results  if  Malcolm  were 
acknowledged  as  the  laird  of  Kirkbyres. 
No :  there  was  bub  one  hopeful  measure, 
one  which  he  had  even  already  approach- 
ed in  a  tentative  way — an  appeal,  name- 
ly, to  Malcolm  himself,  in  which,  while 
acknowledging  his  probable  rights,  but 
representing  in  the  strongest  manner 
the  difficulty  of  proving  them,  he  would 
set  forth  in  their  full  dismay  the  conse- 
quences to  Florimel  of  their  public  rec- 
ognition, and  offer,  upon  the  pledge  of 
his  word  to  a  certain  line  of  conduct,  to 
start  him  in  any  path  he  chose  to  follow. 

Having  thought  the  thing  out  pretty 
thoroughly,  as  he  fancied,  and  resolved 
at  the  same  time  to  feel  his  way  toward 
negotiations  with  Mistress  Catanach,  he 
turned  and  rode  home. 

After  a  tolerable  dinner  he  was  sitting 
over  a  bottle  of  the  port  which  he  prized 
beyond  anything  else  his  succession  had 
brought  him,  when  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room  opened  suddenly  and  the  butlei 
appeared,  pale  with  terror.  "  My  lord  ! 
my  lord !"  he  stammered  as  he  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

"Well?  What  the  devil's  the  matter 
now  ?    Whose  cow's  dead  ?" 

"Your  lordship  didn't  hear  it,  then  ?" 
faltered  the  butler. 

"You've  been  drinking,  Bings,"  said 
the  marquis,  lifting  his  seventh  glass  of 
port. 

"/didn't  say  I  heard  it,  my  lord." 

"  Heard  what,  in  the  name  of  Beelze- 
bub ?" 


MALCOLM. 


263 


"The  ghost,  my  lord." 

"The  what  ?"  shouted  the  marquis. 

"That's  what  they  call  it,  my  lord. 
It's  all  along  of  having  that  wizard's 
chamber  in  the  house,  my  lord." 

"You're  a  set  of  fools,"  said  the  mar- 
quis— "the  whole  kit  of  you  !" 

"That's  what  I  say,  my  lord.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  them,  stericking 
and  screaming.  Mrs.  Courthope  is  try- 
ing her  best  with  them,  but  it's  my  be- 
lief she's  about  as  bad  herself." 

The  marquis  finished  his  glass  of  wine, 
poured  out  and  drank  another,  then 
walked  to  the  door.  When  the  butler 
opened  it  a  strange  sight  met  his  eyes. 
All  the  servants  in  the  house,  men  and 
women,  Duncan  and  Malcolm  alone 
excepted,  had  crowded  after  the  butler, 
every  one  afraid  of  being  left  behind  ; 
and  there  gleamed  the  crowd  of  ghastly 
faces  in  the  light  of  the  great  hall-fire. 
Demon  stood  in  front,  his  mane  bristling 
and  his  eyes  flaming.  Such  was  the  si- 
lence that  the  marquis  heard  the  low 
howl  of  the  waking  wind,  and  the  snow 
like  the  patting  of  soft  hands  against  the 
windows.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  more 
than  half  enjoying  their  terror,  when 
from  somewhere  in  the  building  a  far- 
off  shriek,  shrill  and  piercing,  rang  in 
every  ear.  Some  of  the  men  drew  in 
their  breath  with  a  gasping  sob,  but  most 
of  the  women  screamed  outright ;  and 
that  set  the  marquis  cursing. 

Duncan  and  ]\Ialcolm  had  but  just  en- 
tered the  bed-room  of  the  latter  when  the 
shriek  rent  the  air  close  beside,  and  for 
a  moment  deafened  them.  So  agonized, 
so  shrill,  so  full  of  dismal  terror  was  it, 
that  Malcolm  stood  aghast,  and  Duncan 
started  .to  his  feet  with  responsive  out- 
cry. But  Malcolm  at  once  recovered 
himself.  "Bide  here  till  I  come  back," 
he  whispered,  and  hurried  noiselessly 
out. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  returned,  during 
which  all  had  been  still.  "Noo,  daddy," 
he  said,  "  I'm  gaein'  to  drive  in  the  door 
o'  the  neist  room.  There's  some  deevil- 
ry  at  wark  there.  Stan'  ye  i'  the  door, 
an'  ghaist  or  deevil  'at  wad  win  by  ye, 
grip  it,  an'  haud  on  like  Demon  the 
dog." 


"She  will  so,  she  will  so,"  muttered 
Duncan  in  a  strange  tone.  "Ochone! 
that  she'll  not  pe  hafing  her  turk  with 
her!     Ochone!  ochone!" 

Malcolm  took  the  key  of  the  wizard's 
chamber  from  his  chest  and  his  candle 
from  the  table,  which  he  set  down  in  the 
passage.  In  a  moment  he  had  unlocked 
the  door,  put  his  shoulder  to  it  and  burst 
it  open.  A  light  was  extinguished,  and 
a  shapeless  figure  went  gliding  away 
through  the  gloom.  It  was  no  shadow, 
however,  for,  dashing  itself  against  a 
door  at  the  other  side  of  the  chamber,  it 
staggered  back  with  an  imprecation  of 
fury  and  fear,  pressed  two  hands  to  its 
head,  and,  turning  at  bay,  revealed  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Catanach. 

In  the  door  stood  the  blind  piper  with 
outstretched  arms  and  hands  ready  to 
clutch,  the  fingers  curved  like. claws,  his 
knees  and  haunches  bent,  leaning  for- 
ward like  a  rampant  beast  prepared  to 
spring.  In  his  face  was  wrath,  hatred, 
vengeance,  disgust  —  an  enmity  of  all 
mingled  kinds. 

Malcolm  was  busied  with  something 
in  the  bed,  and  when  she  turned  Mrs. 
Catanach  saw  only  Duncan's  white  face 
of  hatred  gleaming  through  the  darkness. 
"Ye  auld  donnert  deevil !"  she  cried,  with 
an  addition  too  coarse  to  be  set  down, 
and  threw  herself  upon  him. 

The  old  man  said  never  a  word,  but 
with  indrawn  breath  hissing  through  his 
clenched  teeth  clutched  her,  and  down 
they  went  together  in  the  passage,  the 
piper  undermost.  He  had  her  by  the 
throat,  it  is  true,  but  she  had  her  fingers 
in  his  eyes,  and,  kneeling  on  his  chest, 
kept  him  down  with  a  vigor  of  hostile 
effort  that  drew  the  very  picture  of  mur- 
der. It  lasted  but  a  moment,  however,, 
for  the  old  man,  spurred  by  torture  as. 
well  as  hate,  gathered  what  survived  of 
a  most  sinewy  strength  into  one  huge 
heave,  threw  her  back  into  the  room,  and 
rose  with  the  blood  streaming  from  his 
eyes,  just  as  the  marquis  came  round  the 
near  end  of  the  passage,  followed  by  Mrs. 
Courthope,  the  butler.  Stoat  and  two  of 
the  footmen.  Heartily  enjoying  a  row, 
he  stopped  instantly,  and,  signing  a  halt 
to  his  followers,  stood  listening  to  the; 


i64 


MALCOLM. 


mud-geyser  that  now  burst  from  Mrs. 
Catanach's  throat. 

"Ye  bhn'  abortion  o'  Sawtan's  soo  !" 
she  cried,  "didna  I  tak  ye  to  du  wi'  ye 
as  I  hkit  ?  An'  that  deil's  tripe  ye  ca' 
yer  oye  [grandson) —  He!  he!  /lini 
yer  gran'son  !  He's  naething  but  ane  o' 
yer  hatit  Cawm'ells !" 

"A  teanga  a'  diabhuil  mhoir,  tha  thu 
ag  denamh  breug  (O  tongue  of  the  great 
devil !  thou  art  making  a  he),"  screamed 
Duncan,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  God  lay  me  deid  i'  my  sins  gien  he 
be  onything  but  a  bastard  Cawm'ell!" 
she  asseverated  with  a  laugh  of  demo- 
niacal scorn.  "Yerdautit  [petted)  Ma'- 
colm's  naething  but  the  dyke-side  brat 
o'  the  late  Grizel  Cawm'ell,  'at  the  fowk 
tuik  for  a  sant  'cause  she  grat  an'  said 
naething.  I  laid  the  Cawm'ell  pup  i' 
yer  boody  [scarecrow)  airms  wi'  my  ain 
ban's,  upo'  the  tap  o'  yer  curst  scraighin' 
bagpipes  'at  sae  aften  drave  the  sleep 
frae  my  een.  Na,  ye  wad  nane  o'  me ! 
But  I  ga'e  ye  a  Cawm'ell  bairn  to  yer 
hert  for  a'  that,  ye  auld,  hungert,  weyver 
(^/?V/^r)-leggit,  worm-aten  idiot  !" 

A  torrent  of  Gaelic  broke  from  Dun- 
can, into  the  midst  of  which  rushed  an- 
other from  Mrs.  Catanach,  similar,  but 
coarse  in  vowel  and  harsh  in  consonant 
sounds.  The  marquis  stepped  into  the 
room.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this?"  he  said  with  dignity. 

The  tumult  of  Celtic  altercation  ceased. 
The  old  piper  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height  and  stood  silent.  Mrs.  Catanach, 
red  as  fire  with  exertion  and  wrath,  turn- 
ed ashy  pale.  The  marquis  cast  on  her 
a  searching  and  significant  look. 

"See  here,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm. 

Candle  in  hand,  his  lordship  approach- 
ed the  bed.  At  the  same  moment  Mrs. 
Catanach  glided  out  with  her  usual  downy 
step,  gave  a  wink  as  of  mutual  intelli- 
gence to  the  group  at  the  door,  and  van- 
ished. 

On  Malcolm's  arm  lay  the  head  of  a 
■young  girl.  Her  thin,  worn  countenance 
was  stained  with  tears  and  livid  with 
suffocation.  She  was  recovering,  but 
her  eyes  rolled  stupid  and  visionless. 

"It's  Phemy,  my  lord — Blue  Peter's 
lassie,  'at  was  tint,"  said  Malcolm. 


"It  begins  to  look  serious,"  said  the 
marquis. — "  Mrs.  Catanach  !  Mrs.  Court- 
hope  !" 

He  turned  toward  the  door.  Mrs. 
Courthope  entered,  and  a  head  or  two 
peeped  in  after  her.  Duncan  stood  as 
before,  drawn  up  and  stately,  his  visage 
working,  but  his  body  motionless  as  the 
statue  of  a  sentinel. 

"Where  is  the  Catanach  woman  gone  ?" 
cried  the  marquis. 

"Cone!"  shouted  the  piper.  "Cone! 
and  her  huspant  will  be  waiting  to  pe 
killing  her  !     Och  nan  ochan  !" 

"  Her  husband  !"  echoed  the  marquis. 

"Ach!  she'll  not  can  pe  helping  it, 
my  lort — no  more  till  one  will  pe  tead ; 
and  tat  should  pe  ta  woman,  for  she'll 
pe  a  paad  woman — ta  worstest  woman 
efer  was  married,  my  lort." 

"  That's  saying  a  good  deal,"  returned 
the  marquis. 

"Not  one  wort  more  as  enough,  my 
lort,"  said  Duncan.  "She  was  only  pe 
her  next  wife,  put,  ochone !  ochone  !  why 
did  she'll  pe  marry  her  ?  You  would 
haf  stapt  her  long  aco,  my  lort,  if  she'll 
was  your  wife  and  you  was  knowing  ta 
tamned  fox  and  padger  she  was  pe. 
Ochone !  and  she  tidn't  pe  have  her  turk 
at  her  bench  nor  her  sgian  in  her  hose." 

He  shook  his  hands  like  a  despairing 
child,  then  stamped  and  wept  in  the 
agony  of  frustrated  rage. 

Mrs.  Courthope  took  Phemy  in  her 
arms  and  carried  her  to  her  own  room, 
where  she  opened  the  window  and  let 
the  snowy  wind  blow  full  upon  her.  As 
soon  as  she  came  quite  to  herself,  Mal- 
colm set  out  to  bear  the  good  tidings  to 
her  father  and  mother. 

Only  a  few  nights  before  had  Phemy 
been  taken  to  the  room  where  they  found 
her.  She  had  been  carried  from  place 
to  place,  and  had  been  some  time,  she 
believed,  in  Mrs.  Catanach's  own  house. 
They  had  always  kept  her  in  the  dark, 
and  removed  her  at  night  blindfolded. 
When  asked  if  she  had  never  cried  out 
before,  she  said  she  had  been  too  fright- 
ened ;  and  when  questioned  as  to  what 
had  made  her  do  so  then,  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  it :  she  remembered  only  that  a 
horrible  creature  appeared  by  the  bed- 


MALCOLM. 


265 


side,  after  which  all  was  blank.  On  the 
floor  they  found  a  hideous  death-mask, 
doubtless  the  cause  of  the  screams  which 
Mrs.  Catanach  had  sought  to  stifle  with 
the  pillows  and  bed-clothes. 

When  Malcolm  returned  he  went  at 
once  to  the  piper's  cottage,  where  he 
found  him  in  bed,  utterly  exhausted 
and  as  utterly  restless.  "VVeel,  daddy," 
he  said,  "  I  doobt  I  daurna  come  near 
ye  noo." 

"Come  to  her  arms,  my  poor  poy," 
faltered  Duncan.  "She'll  pe  sorry  in 
her  sore  heart  for  her  poy.  Nefer  you 
pe  minding,  my  son  :  you  couldn't  help 
ta  Cam'ell  mother,  and  you'll  pe  her  own 
poy  however.  Ochone !  it  will  pe  a  plot 
xipon  you  aal  your  tays,  my  son,  and 
she'll  not  can  help  you,  and  it'll  pe 
preaking  her  old  heart." 

"  Gien  God  thoucht  the  Cam'ells  worth 
makin',  daddy,  I  dinna  see  'at  I  hae  ony' 
richt  to  compleen  'at  I  cam'  o'  them." 

"  She  hopes  you'll  pe  forgifing  ta  plind 
old  man,  however.  She  couldn't  see,  or 
she  would  haf  known  at  once  petter." 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  ye're  efter  noo, 
daddy,"  said  Malcolm. 

"  That  she'll  do  you  a  creat  wrong, 
and  she'll  be  ferry  sorry  for  it,  my  son." 

"What  wrang  did  ye  ever  du  me, 
daddy  ?" 

"That  she  w-as  let  you  crow  up  a 
Cam'ell,  my  poy.  If  she  tid  put  know 
ta  paad  blood  was  pe  in  you,  she  wouldn't 
pe  tone  you  ta  wrong  as  pring  you  up." 

"That's  a  wrang  no  ill  to  forgi'e,  dad- 
dy. But  it's  a  pity  ye  didna  lat  me  lie, 
for  maybe  syne  Mistress  Catanach  wad 
hae  broucht  me  up  hersel',  an'  I  micht 
hae  come  to  something." 

"Ta  duvil  mhor  [great)  would  pe  in 
your  heart  and  prain  and  poosom,  my 
son." 

"  Weel,  ye  see  what  ye  hae  saved  me 
frae." 

"Yes;  put  ta  duvil  will  be  to  pay,  for 
she  couldn't  safe  you  from  ta  Cam'ell 
plood,  my  son.  Malcolm,  my  poy,"  he 
added  after  a  pause,  and  with  the  solem- 
nity of  a  mighty  hate,  "ta  efil  woman  her- 
self will  pe  a  Cam'ell — ta  woman  Catan- 
ach will  pe  a  Cam'ell,  and  her  nainsel' 
she'll  not  know  it  pefore  she'll  be  in  ta 


ped  with  ta  worstest  Cam'ell  tat  ever  God 
made ;  and  she  pecks  his  pardon,  for 
she'll  not  pelieve  He  wass  making  ta 
Cam'ells." 

"  Divna  ye  think  God  made  me,  dad- 
dy ?"  asked  Malcolm. 

The  old  man  thought  for  a  little.  "  Tat 
will  tepend  on  who  was  pe  your  father, 
my  son,"  he  replied.  "  If  he  too  will  be 
a  Cam'ell — ochone  !  ochone  !  Put  tere 
may  pe  some  coot  plood  co  into  you — 
more  as  enough  to  say  God  will  pe  make 
you,  my  son.  Put  don't  pe  asking,  Mal- 
colm— ton't  you'll  pe  asking." 

"What  am  I  no  to  ask,  daddy  ?" 

"Ton't  pe  asking  who  made  you,  who 
was  ta  father  to  you,  my  poy.  She  would 
rather  not  pe  knowing,  for  ta  man  might 
pe  a  Cam'ell  poth.  And  if  she  couldn't 
pe  lofing  you  no  more,  my  son,  she  would 
pe  tie  before  her  time,  and  her  tays  would 
pe  long  in  ta  land  under  ta  crass,  my 
son." 

But  the  remembrance  of  the  sweet  face 
whose  cold  loveliness  he  had  once  kissed 
was  enough  to  outweigh  with  Malcolm 
all  the  prejudices  of  Duncan's  instilla- 
tion, and  he  was  proud  to  take  up  even 
her  shame.  To  pass  from  Mrs.  Stewart 
to  her  was  to  escape  from  the  clutches 
of  a  vampire  demon  to  the  arms  of  a 
sweet  mother-angel. 

Deeply  concerned  for  the  newly-dis- 
covered misfortunes  of  the  old  man  to 
whom  he  was  indebted  for  this  world's 
life  at  least,  he  anxiously  sought  to  soothe 
him  ;  but  he  had  far  more  and  far  worse 
to  torment  him  than  Malcolm  even  yet 
knew,  and  with  burning  cheeks  and 
bloodshot  eyes  he  lay  tossing  from  side 
to  side,  now  uttering  terrible  curses  in 
Gaelic  and  now  weeping  bitterly.  Mal- 
colm took  his  loved  pipes,  and  with  the 
gentlest  notes  he  could  draw  from  them 
tried  to  charm  to  rest  the  ruffled  waters 
of  his  spirit ;  but  his  efforts  were  all  in 
vain,  and  believing  at  length  that  he 
would  be  quieter  without  him,  he  went 
to  the  House  and  to  his  own  room. 

The  door  of  the  adjoining  chamber 
stood  open,  and  the  long-forbidden  room 
lay  exposed  to  any  eye.  Little  did  Mal- 
colm think  as  he  gazed  around  it  that  it 
was  the  room  in  which  he  had  first  breath- 


266 


MALCOLM. 


ed  the  air  of  the  world ;  in  which  his 
mother  had  wept  over  her  own  false  po- 
sition and  his  reported  death  ;  and  from 
which  he  had  been  carried,  by  Duncan's 
wicked  wife,  down  the  ruinous  stair  and 
away  to  the  lip  of  the  sea,  to  find  a 
home  in  the  arms  of  the  man  whom  he 
had  just  left  on  his  lonely  couch  torn  be- 
tween the  conflicting  emotions  of  a  gra- 
cious love  for  him  and  the  frightful  hate 
of  her. 


CHAPTER    LXVII. 
FEET    OK    WOOL. 

The  next  day,  Miss  Horn,  punctual  as 
Fate,  presented  herself  at  Lossie  House, 
and  was  shown  at  once  into  the  marquis's 
study,  as  it  was  called.  When  his  lord- 
ship entered  she  took  the  lead  the  mo- 
ment the  door  was  shut.  "  By  this  time, 
my  lord,  ye'U  doobtless  hae  made  up  yer 
min'  to  du  what's  richt?"  she  said. 

"That's  what  I  have  always  wanted  to 
do,"  returned  the  marquis. 

"  Hm  !"  remarked  Miss  Horn  as  plain- 
ly as  inarticulately. 

"  In  this  affair,"  he  supplemented ;  add- 
ing, "  It's  not  always  so  easy  to  tell  what 
is  right." 

"  It's  no  aye  easy  to  luik  for  't  wi'  baith 
yer  een,"  said  Miss  Horn. 

"This  woman  Catanach — we  must  get 
her  to  give  credible  testimony.  What- 
ever the  fact  may  be,  we  must  have  strong 
evidence.  And  there  comes  the  difficulty, 
that  she  has  already  made  an  altogether 
different  statement." 

"  It  gangs  for  naething,  my  lord.  It 
was  never  made  afore  a  justice  o'  the 
peace." 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  to  her  and  see 
how  she  is  inclined." 

"Me  gang  to  Bawbie  Catanach!"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Horn.  "I  wad  as  sune 
gang  an'  kittle  Sawtan's  nose  wi'  the 
p'int  o'  's  tail.  Na,  na,  my  lord.  Gien 
onybody  gang  till  her  wi'  my  wull,  it  s' 
be  a  limb  o'  the  law.  I  s'  hae  nae  cog- 
nostin'  wi'  her." 

"You  would  have  no  objection,  how- 
ever, to  my  seeing  her,  I  presume — ^just 
to  let  her  know  that  we  have  an  inkling 
of  the  truth  .?"  said  the  marquis. 


Now,  all  this  was  the  merest  talk,  for 
of  course  Miss  Horn  could  not  long  re- 
main in  ignorance  of  the  declaration  her 
fury  had,  the  night  previous,  forced  from 
Mrs.  Catanach  ;  but  he  must,  he  thought, 
put  her  off  and  keep  her  quiet,  if  pos- 
sible, until  he  had  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  Malcolm,  after  which  he 
would  no  doubt  have  his  trouble  with 
her. 

"Ye  can  du  as  yer  lordship  likes,"  an- 
swered Miss  Horn,  "but  I  wadna  hae  't 
said  o'  me  'at  I  had  ony  dealin's  wi'  her. 
Wha  kens  but  she  micht  say  ye  tried  to 
bribe  her  ?  There's  naething  she  wad 
bogle  at  gien  she  thoucht  it  worth  her 
while.  No  'at  I  'm  feart  at  her.  Lat 
her  lee!  I'm  no  sae  blate  but —  Only 
dinna  lippen  till  a  word  she  says,  my 
lord." 

The   marquis   hesitated.     "I   wonder 
whether  the  real  source  of  my  perplexity 
occurs  to  you,  Miss  Horn,"  he  said  at 
length.    "You  know  I  have  a  daughter  ?" 
"Weel  eneuch  that,  my  lord." 
"  By  my  second  marriage." 
"Nae  merridge  ava',  my  lord." 
"True,  if  I  confess  to  the  first." 
"A'  the  same  whether  or  no,  my  lord." 
"Then  you  see,"  the  marquis  went  on, 
refusing  offence,  "what  the  admission  of 
your  story  would  make  of  my  daughter  ?" 
"That's  plain  eneuch,  my  lord." 
"  Now,  if  I  have  read  Malcolm  right  he 
has  too  much  regard  for  his — mistress — 
to  put  her  in  such  a  false  position." 

"That  is,  my  lord,  ye  wad  hae  yer 
lawfu'  son  beir  the  lawless  name." 

"  No,  no  :  it  need  never  come  out  what 
he  is.  I  will  provide  for  him — as  a  gen- 
tleman, of  course." 

"  It  canna  be,  my  lord.  Ye  can  du 
naething  for  him,  wi'  that  face  o'  his, 
but  oot  comes  the  trouth  as  to  the  fath- 
er o'  'im  ;  an'  it  wadna  be  lang  afore  the 
tale  was  ekit  oot  wi'  the  name  o'  his 
mither — Mistress  Catanach  wad  see  to 
that,  gien  'twas  only  to  spite  me — an'  I 
wunna  hae  my  Grizel  ca'd  what  she  is 
not  for  ony  lord's  dauchter  i'  the  three 
kynriks." 

"What  docs  it  matter,  now  she's  dead 
and  gone  ?"  said  the  marquis,  false  to  the 
dead  in  his  love  for  the  living. 


MALCOLM. 


267 


"Deid  an'  gane,  my  lord?  What  ca' 
ye  deid  an'  gane  ?  Maybe  the  great  anes 
o'  the  yerth  get  sic  a  forlethie  [surfeit) 
o'  grand'ur  'at  they're  for  nae  mair,  an' 
wad  perish  like  the  brute  beast.  For 
onything  I  ken,  they  may  hae  their  wuss, 
but  for  mysel',  I  wad  warstle  to  haud  my 
sowl  waukin'  [awake')  i'  the  verra  article 
o'  deith,  for  the  bare  chance  o'  seein'  my 
bonny  Grizel  again.  It's  a  mercy  I  hae 
nae  feelin's,"  she  added,  arresting  her 
handkerchief  on  its  way  to  her  eyes,  and 
refusing  to  acknowledge  the  single  tear 
that  ran  down  her  cheek. 

Plainly  she  was  not  like  any  of  the 
women  whose  characters  the  marquis 
had  accepted  as  typical  of  womankind. 

"Then  you  won't  leave  the  matter  to  her 
husband  and  son  ?"  he  said  reproachfully. 

"  I  tellt  ye,  ray  lord,  I  wad  du  naething 
but  what  I  saw  to  be  richt.  Lat  this  af- 
fair oot  o'  my  ban's  I  daurna.  That  laad 
ye  micht  work  to  onything  'at  made  agane 
himsel'.  He's  jist  like  his  puir  mither 
there." 

"If  Miss  Campbell  was  his  mother," 
said  the  marquis. 

"Miss  Cam'ell !"  cried  Miss  Horn. 
"  I'll  thank  yer  lordship  to  ca'  her  by  her 
ain,  an'  that's  Lady  Lossie." 

What  of  the  something  ruinous  heart 
of  the  marquis  was  habitable  was  occu- 
pied by  his  daughter,  and  had  no  accom- 
modation at  present  either  for  his  dead 
wife  or  his  living  son.  Once  more  he 
sat  thinking  in  silence  for  a  while.  "  I'll 
make  Malcolm  a  post-captain  in  the 
navy  and  give  you  a  thousand  pounds," 
he  said  at  length,  hardly  knowing  that 
he  spoke. 

Miss  Horn  rose  to  her  full  height  and 
stood  like  an  angel  of  rebuke  before 
him.  Not  a  word  did  she  speak,  only 
looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  turned 
to  leave  the  room.  The  marquis  saw  his 
danger,  and  striding  to  the  door  stood 
with  his  back  against  it. 

"Think  ye  to  scare  me,  my  lord  ?"  she 
asked  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "  Gang  an' 
scare  the  stane  lion-beast  at  yer  ha'-door. 
Haud  oot  o'  the  gait  an'  lat  me  gang." 

"  Not  until  I  know  what  you  are  going 
to  do,"  said  the  marquis  very  seriously. 

"  I  hae  naething  mair  to  transac'  wi' 


yer  lordship.  You  an'  me  's  strangers, 
my  lord." 

"  Tut !  tut !     I  was  but  trying  you." 

"An'  gien  I  had  ta'en  the  disgrace  ye 
offert  me,  ye  wad  hae  drawn  back  ?" 

"No,  certainly." 

"Ye  wasna  tryin'  me,  then:  ye  was 
duin'  yer  best  to  corrup'  me." 

"I'm  no  splitter  of  hairs." 

"  My  lord,  it's  nane  but  the  corrup'ible 
wad  seek  to  corrup'." 

The  marquis  gnawed  a  nail  or  two  in 
silence.  Miss  Horn  dragged  an  easy- 
chair  within  a  couple  of  yards  of  him. 

"We'll  see  wha  tires  o'  this  ghem  first, 
my  lord,"  she  said  as  she  sank  into  its 
hospitable  embrace. 

The  9;iarquis  turned  to  lock  the  door, 
but  there  was  no  key  in  it.  Neither  was 
there  any  chair  within  reach,  and  he  was 
not  fond  of  standing.  Clearly,  his  enemy 
had  the  advantage. 

"  Hae  ye  h'ard  o'  puir  Sandy  Graham 
— hoo  they're  misguidin'  him,  my  lord  ?" 
she  asked  with  composure. 

The  marquis  was  first  astounded,  and 
then  tickled  by  her  assurance.  "No," 
he  answered. 

"They  hae  turnt  him  oot  o'  hoose  an' 
ha' — schuil,  at  least,  an'  hame,"  she  re- 
joined. "  I  may  say  they  hae  turnt  him 
oot  o'  Scotlan',  for  what  presbytery  wad 
hae  him  efter  he  had  been  fun'  guilty  o' 
no  thinkin'  like  ither  fowk  ?  Ye  maun 
Stan'  his  guid  freen',  my  lord." 

"He  shall  be  Malcolm's  tutor,"  an- 
swered the  marquis,  not  to  be  outdone  in 
coolness,  "and  go  with  him  to  Edinburgh 
— or  Oxford,  if  he  prefers  it." 

"Never  yerl  o'  Colonsay  had  a  better," 
said  Miss  Horn. 

"Softly,  softly,  ma'am,"  returned  the 
marquis.  "  I  did  not  say  he  should  go 
in  that  style." 

"  He  s'  gang  as  my  lord  o'  Colonsay  or 
hes'  no  gang  at /(??/r  expense,  my  lord," 
said  his  antagonist. 

"Really,  ma'am,  one  would  think  you 
were  my  grandmother,  to  hear  you  order 
my  affairs  for  me." 

"  I  wuss  I  war,  my  lord  :  I  sud  gar  ye 
hear  risson  upo'  baith  sides  o'  yer  heid, 
I  s'  warran'." 

The  marquis  laughed.     "Well,  I  can't 


268 


MALCOLM. 


stand  here  all  day,"  he  said,  impatiently 
swinging  one  leg. 

"I'm  weel  awaur  o'  that,  my  lord,"  an- 
swered Miss  Horn,  rearranging  her  scanty 
skirt. 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  keep  me, 
then  ?" 

"  I  wadna  hae  ye  bide  a  meenute  langer 
nor 's  agreeable  to  yersel'.  But  /'m  in 
nae  hurry  sae  lang  's  ye're  afore  me. 
Ye're  nae  ill  to  luik  at,  though  ye  maun 
hae  been  bonnier  the  day  ye  wan  the 
hert  o'  my  Grizel." 

The  marquis  uttered  an  oath  and  left 
the  door.  Miss  Horn  sprang  to  it,  but 
there  was  the  marquis  again.  "  Miss 
Horn,"  he  said,  "  I  beg  you  will  give  me 
another  day  to  think  of  this." 

"  Whaur's  the  use  ?  A'  the  thinkin'  i' 
the  warl'  canna  alter  a  single  fac'.  Ye 
maun  do  richt  by  my  laddie  o'  yer  ain- 
sel',  or  I  maun  gar  ye." 

"You  would  find  a  lawsuit  heavy.  Miss 
Horn." 

"  An'  ye  wad  fin'  the  scandal  o'  't  ill 
to  bide,  my  lord.  It  wad  come  sair  upo' 
Miss —  I  kenna  what  name  she  has  a 
richt  till,  my  lord." 

The  marquis  uttered  a  frightful  impre- 
cation, left  the  door,  and,  sitting  down, 
hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Miss  Horn  rose,  but  instead  of  securing 
her  retreat,  approached  him  gently  and 
stood  by  his  side.  "My  lord,"  she  said, 
"  I  canna  thole  to  see  a  man  in  tribble. 
Women  's  born  till 't,  an'  they  tak  it  an' 
are  thankfu' ;  but  a  man  never  gies  in 
till't,  an'  sae  it  comes  harder  upo'  him 
nor  upo'  them.  Hear  me,  my  lord :  gien 
there  be  a  man  upo'  this  earth  wha  wad 
shield  a  woman,  that  man 's  Ma'colm 
Colonsay." 

"If  only  she  weren't  his  sister!"  mur- 
mured the  marquis. 

"An'  jist  bethink  ye,  my  lord  :  wad  it 
be  onything  less  nor  an  imposition  to  lat 
a  man  merry  her  ohn  tellt  him  what  she 
was  ?" 

"You  insolent  old  woman  !"  cried  the 
marquis,  losing  his  temper,  discretion  and 
manners  all  together.  "Go  and  do  your 
worst,  and  be  damned  to  you  !" 

So  saying,  he  left  the  room,  and  Miss 
Horn  found  her  way  out  of  the  house  in 


a  temper  quite  as  fierce  as  his — in  cha- 
racter, however,  entirely  different,  inas- 
much as  it  was  righteous. 

At  that  very  moment  Malcolm  was  in 
search  of  his  master,  and  seeing  the  back 
of  him  disappear  in  the  library,  to  which 
he  had  gone  in  a  half-blind  rage,  he  fol- 
lowed him.     "  My  lord  !"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  want?"  returned  his 
master  in  a  rage.  For  some  time  he  had 
been  hauling  on  the  curb-rein,  which  had 
fretted  his  temper  the  more,  and  when  he 
let  go  the  devil  ran  away  with  him. 

"  I  thoucht  yer  lordship  wad  like  to  see 
an  auld  stair  I  cam  upo'  the  ither  day,  'at 
gangs  frae  the  wizard's  chaumer — " 

"Go  to  hell  with  your  damned  tomfool- 
ery !"  said  the  marquis.  "  If  ever  you 
mention  that  cursed  hole  again  I'll  kick 
you  out  of  the  house." 

Malcolm's  eyes  flashed  and  a  fierce 
answer  rose  to  his  lips,  but  he  had  seen 
that  his  master  was  in  trouble,  and  sym- 
pathy supplanted  rage.  He  turned  and 
left  the  room  in  silence. 

Lord  Lossie  paced  up  and  down  the 
library  for  a  whole  hour  —  a  long  time 
for  him  to  be  in  one  mood.  The  mood 
changed  color  pretty  frequently  during 
the  hour,  however,  and  by  degrees  his 
wrath  assuaged.  But  at  the  end  of  it  he 
knew  no  more  what  he  was  going  to  do 
than  when  he  left  Miss  Horn  in  the  study. 
Then  came  the  gnawing  of  his  usual 
ennui  and  restlessness :  he  must  find 
something  to  do. 

The  thing  he  always  thought  of  first 
was  a  ride,  but  the  only  animal  of  horse- 
kind  about  the  place  which  he  liked  was 
the  bay  mare,  and  her  he  had  lamed. 
He  would  go  and  see  what  the  rascal  had 
come  bothering  about  —  alone,  though, 
for  he  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  the 
fisher-fellow,  damn  him ! 

In  a  few  minutes  he  stood  in  the  wiz- 
ard's chamber,  and  glanced  around  it 
with  a  feeling  of  discomfort  rather  than 
sorrow — of  annoyance  at  the  trouble  of 
which  it  had  been  for  him  both  fountain 
and  storehouse,  rather  than  regret  for 
the  agony  and  contempt  which  his  self- 
ishness had  brought  upon  the  woman  he 
loved  :  then  spying  the  door  in  the  far- 
thest corner,   he  made  for  it,  and  in  a 


MALCOLM. 


269 


moment  more,  his  curiosity  now  thor- 
oughly roused,  was  slowly  gyrating  down 
the  steps  of  the  old  screw-stair. 

But  Malcolm  had  gone  to  his  own 
room,  and,  hearing  some  one  in  the 
next,  half  suspected  who  it  was,  and 
went  in.  Seeing  the  closet-door  open, 
he  hurried  to  the  stair,  and  shouted, 
"  My  lord  !  my  lord  !  or  whaever  ye  are  ! 
tak  care  hoo  ye  gang  or  ye'll  get  a  ter- 
rible fa'." 

Down  a  single  yard  the  stair  was  quite 
dark,  and  he  dared  not  follow  fast  for 
fear  of  himself  falling  and  occasioning 
the  accident  he  feared.  As  he  descend- 
ed he  kept  repeating  his  warnings,  but 
either  his  master  did  not  hear  or  heeded 
too  little,  for  presently  Malcolm  heard 
a  rush,  a  dull  fall  and  a  groan.  Hurry- 
ing as  fast  as  he  dared  with  the  risk  of 
falling  upon  him,  he  found  the  marquis 
lying  amongst  the  stones  in  the  ground 
entrance,  apparently  unable  to  move, 
and  white  with  pain.  Presently,  how- 
ever, he  got  up,  swore  a  good  deal  and 
limped  swearing  into  the  house. *> 

The  doctor,  who  was  sent  for  instant- 
ly, pronounced  the  knee  -  cap  injured, 
and  applied  leeches.  Inflammation  set 
in,  and  another  doctor  and  surgeon  were 
sent  for  from  Aberdeen.  They  came, 
applied  poultices,  and  again  leeches,  and 
enjoined  the  strictest  repose.  The  pain 
was  severe,  but  to  one  of  the  marquis's 
temperament  the  enforced  quiet  was 
worse. 


CHAPTER  LXVin. 
HANDS   OF    IRON. 

The  marquis  was  loved  by  his  do- 
mestics, and  his  accident,  with  its  con- 
sequences, although  none  more  serious 
were  anticipated,  cast  a  gloom  over  Los- 
sie  House.  Far  apart  as  was  his  cham- 
ber from  all  the  centres  of  domestic  life, 
the  pulses  of  his  suffering  beat  as  it  were 
through  the  house,  and  the  servants 
moved  with  hushed  voice  and  gentle 
footfall. 

Outside,  the  course  of  events  waited 
upon  his  recovery,  for  Miss  Horn  was 
too   generous   not  to  delay  proceedings 


while  her  adversary  was  ill.  Besides, 
what  she  most  of  all  desired  was  the 
marquis's  free  acknowledgment  of  his 
son  ;  and  after  such  a  time  of  suffering 
and  constrained  reflection  as  he  was  now 
passing  through  he  could  hardly  fail,  she 
thought,  to  be  more  inclined  to  what  was 
just  and  fair. 

Malcolm  had  of  course  hastened  to 
the  schoolmaster  with  the  joy  of  his  de- 
liverance from  Mrs.  Stewart,  but  Mr. 
Graham  had  not  acquainted  him  with 
the  discovery  Miss  Horn  had  made,  or 
her  belief  concerning  his  large  interest 
therein,  to  which  Malcolm's  report  of 
the  wrath-born  declaration  of  Mrs.  Cat- 
anach  had  now  supplied  the  only  testi- 
mony wanting,  for  the  right  of  disclosure 
was  Miss  Horn's.  To  her  he  had  car- 
ried Malcolm's  narrative  of  late  events, 
tenfold  strengthening  her  position  ;  but 
she  was  anxious  in  her  turn  that  the  rev- 
elation concerning  his  birth  should  come 
to  him  from  his  father.  Hence,  Malcolm 
continued  in  ignorance  of  the  strange 
dawn  that  had  begun  to  break  on  the 
darkness  of  his  origin. 

Miss  Horn  had  told  Mr.  Graham  what 
the  marquis  had  said  about  the  tutorship, 
but  the  schoolmaster  only  shook  his  head 
with  a  smile,  and  went  on  with  his  prep- 
arations for  departure. 

The  hours  went  by,  the  days  length- 
ened into  weeks,  and  the  marquis's  con- 
dition did  not  improve.  He  had  never 
known  sickness  and  pain  before,  and 
like  most  of  the  children  of  this  world 
counted  them  the  greatest  of  evils ;  nor 
was  there  any  sign  of  their  having  as 
yet  begun  to  open  his  eyes  to  what  those 
who  have  seen  them  call  truths — those 
who  have  never  even  boded  their  pres- 
ence count  absurdities. 

More  and  more,  however,  he  desired 
the  attendance  of  Malcolm,  who  was 
consequently  a  great  deal  about  him, 
serving  with  a  love  to  account  for  which 
those  who  knew  his  nature  would  not 
have  found  it  necessary  to  fall  back  on 
the  instinct  of  the  relation  between  them. 
The  marquis  had  soon  satisfied  himself 
that  that  relation  was  as  yet  unknown  to 
him,  and  was  all  the  better  pleased  with 
his  devotion  and  tenderness. 


270 


MALCOLM. 


The  inflammation  continued,  increased, 
spread,  and  at  length  the  doctors  deter- 
mined to  amputate.  Rut  the  marquis 
was  absolutely  horrified  at  the  idea — 
shrank  from  it  with  invincible  repug- 
nance. The  moment  the  first  dawn  of 
comprehension  vaguely  illuminated  their 
periphrastic  approaches  he  blazed  out 
in  a  fury,  cursed  them  frightfully,  called 
them  all  the  contemptuous  names  in  his 
rather  limited  vocabulary,  and  swore  he 
would  see  them — uncomfortable  first. 

"We  fear  mortification,  my  lord,"  said 
the  physician  calmly. 

"So  do  I.  Keep  it  off,"  returned  the 
marquis. 

"We  fear  we  cannot,  my  lord."  It 
had,  in  fact,  already  commenced. 

"  Let  it  mortify,  then,  and  be  damned," 
said  his  lordship. 

"  I  trust,  my  lord,  you  will  reconsider 
it,"  said  the  surgeon.  "We  should  not 
have  dreamed  of  suggesting  a  measure 
of  such  severity  had  we  not  had  reason 
to  dread  that  the  further  prosecution  of 
gentler  means  would  but  lessen  your 
lordship's  chance  of  recovery." 

"You  mean,  then,  that  my  life  is  in 
danger?" 

"We  fear,"  said  the  physician,  "that 
the  amputation  proposed  is  the  only  thing 
that  can  save  it." 

"What  a  brace  of  blasted  bunglers 
you  are !"  cried  the  marquis,  and,  turn- 
ing away  his  face,  lay  silent. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  and 
said  nothing. 

Malcolm  was  by,  and  a  pang  shot 
to  his  heart  at  the  verdict.  The  men 
retired  to  consult.  Malcolm  approach- 
ed the  bed.     "My  lord !"  he  said  gently. 

No  reply  came. 

"Dinna  lea  's  oor  lanes,  my  lord — no 
yet,"  Malcolm  persisted.  "What's  to 
come  o'  my  leddy  ?" 

The  marquis  gave  a  gasp.  Still  he 
made  no  reply. 

"She  has  naebody,  ye  ken,  my  lord, 
'at  ye  wad  like  to  lippen  her  wi'." 

"  You  must  take  care  of  her  when  I  am 
gone,  Malcolm,"  murmured  the  marquis; 
and  his  voice  was  now  gentle  with  sad- 
ness and  broken  with  misery. 

"Me,   my  lord!"   returned   Malcolm. 


"Wha  wad  min'  me.''  An'  what  cud  I 
du  wi'  her  ?  I  cudna  even  haud  her  ohn 
wat  her  feet.  Her  leddy's  maid  cud  du 
mair  wi'  her,  though  I  wad  lay  doon  my 
life  for  her,  as  I  tauld  ye,  my  lord;  an' 
she  kens  't  weel  eneuch." 

Silence  followed.  Both  men  were 
thinking. 

"Gie  me  a  richt,  my  lord,  an'  I'll  du 
my  best,"  said  Malcolm,  at  length  break- 
ing the  silence. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  growled  the 
marquis,  whose  mood  had  altered. 

"Gie  me  a  legal  richt,  my  lord,  an' 
see  gien  I  dinna." 

"See  what  ?" 

"  See  gien  I  dinna  luik  weel  efter  my 
leddy." 

"  How  am  I  to  see  ?  I  shall  be  dead 
and  damned." 

"Please  God,  my  lord,  ye'll  be  alive 
an'  weel — in  a  better  place,  if  no  here  to 
luik  efter  my  leddy  yersel'." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  muttered  the  mar- 
quis. 

"  But  ye'll  hearken  to  the  doctors,  my 
lord,"  Malcolm  went  on,  "an'  no  dee 
wantin'  time  to  consider  o'  't." 

"Yes,  yes  :  to-morrow  I'll  have  anoth- 
er talk  with  them.  We'll  see  about  it. 
There's  time  enough  yet.  They're  all 
coxcombs,  every  one  of  them.  They 
never  give  a  patient  the  least  credit  for 
common  sense." 

"  I  dinna  ken,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm 
doubtfully. 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  during 
which  Malcolm  thought  he  had  fallen 
asleep,  the  marquis  resumed  abruptly. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  giving  you  a 
legal  right  ?"  he  said. 

"There's  some  w'y  o'  makin'  ae  body 
guairdian  till  anither,  sae  'at  the  law  'II 
uphaud  him — isna  there,  my  lord  ?" 

"Yes,  surely.  Well!  Rather  odd — 
wouldn't  it  be?  —  a  young  fisher  -  lad 
guardian  to  a  marchioness !  Eh  ?  They 
say  there's  nothing  new  under  the  sun, 
but  that  sounds  rather  like  it,  I  think." 

Malcolm  was  overjoyed  to  hear  him 
speak  with  something  like  his  old  man- 
ner. He  felt  he  could  stand  any  amount 
of  chaff  from  him  now,  and  so  tiie  prop- 
osition he  had  made  in  seriousness  he 


MALCOLM. 


271 


went  on  to  defend  in  the  hope  of  giving 
amusement,  yet  with  a  secret  wild  dehght 
in  the  dream  of  such  full  devotion  to  the 
service  of  Lady  Florimel. 

"It  wad  soon'  queer  eneuch,  my  lord, 
nae  doobt,  but  fowk  maunna  min'  the 
soon'  o'  a  thing  gien  't  be  a'  straucht  an' 
fair,  an'  strong  eneuch  to  stan'.  They 
cudna  lauch  me  oot  o'  my  richts,  be  they 
'at  they  likit — Lady  Bellair  or  ony  o'  them 
— na,  nor  jaw  me  oot  o'  them  aither." 

"They  might  do  a  good  deal  to  ren- 
der those  rights  of  little  use,"  said  the 
marquis. 

"That  wad  come  till  a  trial  o'  brains, 
my  lord,"  returned  Malcolm:  "an'  ye 
dinna  think  I  wadna  hae  the  wit  to  speir 
advice;  an',  what's  mair,  to  ken  whan 
it  was  guid,  an'  tak  it.  There's  lawyers, 
my  lord." 

"And  their  expenses  ?" 

"Ye  cud  lea'  sae  muckle  to  be  waured 
[spent]  upo'  the  cairryin'  oot  o'  yer  lord- 
ship's wuU." 

"Who  would  see  that  you  applied  it 
properly  ?" 

"My  ain  conscience,  my  lord,  or  Mr. 
Graham  gien  ye  likit." 

"  And  how  would  you  live  yourself?" 

"Ow!  lea'  ye  that  to  me,  my  lord. 
Only  dinna  imagine  I  wad  be  behauden 
to  yer  lordship.  I  houp  I  hae  mair  pride 
nor  that.  Ilka  poun'-not',  shillin'  an' 
bawbee  sud  be  laid  oot  for  her,  an'  what 
was  left  hainet  [saved]  for  her." 

"By  Jove!  it's  a  daring  proposal!" 
said  the  marquis ;  and,  which  seemed 
strange  to  Malcolm,  not  a  single  thread 
of  ridicule  ran  through  the  tone  in  which 
he  made  the  remark. 

The  next  day  came,  but  brought  nei- 
ther strength  of  body  nor  of  mind  with 
it.  Again  his  professional  attendants  be- 
sought him,  and  he  heard  them  more 
quietly,  but  rejected  their  proposition  as 
positively  as  before.  In  a  day  or  two  he 
ceased  to  oppose  it,  but  would  not  hear 
of  preparation.  Hour  glided  into  hour, 
and  days  had  gathered  to  a  week,  when 
they  assailed  him  with  a  solemn  and 
last  appeal. 

"Nonsense!"  answered  the  marquis. 
"  My  leg  is  getting  better.  I  feel  no  pain 
— in  fact,  nothing  but  a  little  faintness. 


I  Your   damned  medicines,    I   haven't  a 
!  doubt." 

I       "You  are  in  the  greatest  danger,  my 
lord.     It  is  all  but  too  late  even  now." 

"  To-morrow,  then,  if  it  must  be.  To- 
day I  could  not  endure  to  have  my  hair 
cut,  positively ;  and  as  to  having  my  leg 
off — pooh  !  the  thing's  preposterous." 

He  turned  white  and  shuddered,  for 
all  the  nonchalance  of  his  speech. 

When  to-morrow  came  there  was  not 
a  surgeon  in  the  land  who  would  have 
taken  his  leg  off.  He  looked  in  their 
faces,  and  seemed  for  the  first  time  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity  of  the  measure. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  please,"  he  said : 
"  I  am  ready." 

"Not  to-day,  my  lord,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor— "your  lordship  is  not  equal  to  it  to- 
day." 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  marquis,  and 
paled  frightfully  and  turned  his  head 
aside. 

When  Mrs.  Courthope  suggested  that 
Lady  Florimel  should  be  sent  for,  he  flew 
into  a  frightful  rage,  and  spoke  as  it  is 
to  be  hoped  he  had  never  spoken  to  a 
woman  before.  She  took  it  with  perfect 
gentleness,  but  could  not  repress  a  tear. 
The  marquis  saw  it,  and  his  heart  was 
touched.  "You  mustn't  mind  a  dying 
man's  temper,"  he  said. 

"It's  not  for  myself,  my  lord,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"I  know:  you  think  I'm  not  fit  to  die; 
and,  damn  it!  you  are  right.  Never  one 
was  less  fit  for  heaven  or  less  willing  to 
go  to  hell." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  a  clergyman, 
my  lord?"  she  suggested,  sobbing. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out 
into  a  still  worse  passion,  but  controlled 
himself.  "A  clergyman  !"  he  cried:  "I 
would  as  soon  see  the  undertaker.  What 
could  he  do  but  tell  me  I  was  going  to  be 
damned — a  fact  I  know  better  than  he 
can  ?  That  is,  if  it's  not  all  an  invention 
of  the  cloth,  as,  in  my  soul,  I  believe  it  is. 
I've  said  so  anytime  these  forty  years." 

"Oh,  my  lord!  my  lord!  do  not  fling 
away  your  last  hope." 

"You  imagine  me  to  have  a  chance, 
then  ?  Good  soul !  you  don't  know  any 
better." 


272 


MALCOLM. 


"The  Lord  is  merciful." 
The  marquis  laughed — that  is,  he  tried, 
failed,  and  grinned. 

"  Mr.  Cairns  is  in  the  dining-room,  my 
lord." 

"Bah !  A  low  pettifogger,  with  the  soul 
of  a  bullock.  Don't  let  me  hear  the  fel- 
low's name.  I've  been  bad  enough,  God 
knows,  but  1  haven't  sunk  to  the  level  of 
his  help  yet.  If  he's  God  Almighty's  fac- 
tor, and  the  saw  holds, '  Like  master,  like 
man,'  well,  I  would  rather  have  nothing 
to  do  with  either." 

"That  is,  if  you  had  the  choice,  my 
lord,"  said  Mrs.  Courthope,  her  temper 
yielding  somewhat,  though  in  truth  his 
speech  was  not  half  so  irreverent  as  it 
seemed  to  her. 

"Tell  him  to  go  to  hell.  No,  don't: 
set  him  down  to  a  bottle  of  port  and  a 
great  sponge-cake,  and  you  needn't  tell 
him  to  go  to  heaven,  for  he'll  be  there 
already.  Why,  Mrs.  Courthope,  the  fel- 
low isn't  a  gentleman.  And  yet  all  he 
cares  for  the  cloth  is  that  he  thinks  it 
makes  a  gentleman  of  him — as  if  any- 
thing in  heaven,  earth  or  hell  could  work 
that  miracle  !" 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  as  Malcolm 
sat  by  his  bed,  thinking  him  asleep,  the 
marquis  spoke  suddenly.  "  You  must  go 
(o  Aberdeen  to-morrow,  Malcolm,"  he 
said. 

"Verra  weel,  my  lord." 
"And  bring  Mr.  Glennie,  the  lawyer, 
back  with  you." 
"Yes,  my  lord." 
"Go  to  bed,  then." 

"  I  wad  raither  bide,  my  lord.  I  cudna 
sleep  a  wink  for  wantin'  to  be  back  aside 
ye." 

The  marquis  yielded,  and  Malcolm  sat 
by  him  all  the  night  through.  He  toss- 
ed about,  would  doze  off  and  murmur 
strangely,  then  wake  up  and  ask  for 
brandy  and  water,  yet  be  content  with 
the  lemonade  Malcolm  gave  him. 

Next  day  he  quarreled  with  every  word 
that  Mrs.  Courthope  uttered,  kept  forget- 
ting he  had  sent  Malcolm  away,  and  was 
continually  wanting  him.  His  fits  of 
pain  were  more  severe,  alternated  with 
drowsiness,  which  deepened  at  times  to 
stupor. 


It  was  late  before  Malcolm  returned. 
He  went  instantly  to  his  bedside. 

"Is  Mr.  Glennie  with  you  ?"  asked  his 
master  feebly. 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Tell  him  to  come  here  at  once." 

When  Malcolm  returned  with  the  law- 
yer the  marquis  directed  him  to  place  a 
table  and  chair  by  the  bedside,  light  four 
candles,  provide  everything  necessary  for 
writing  and  efo  to  bed. 


CHAPTER    LXIX. 
THK   MARQUIS   AND   THE   SCHOOLMASTER. 

Before  Malcolm  was  awake  his  lord- 
ship had  sent  for  him.  When  he  re-en- 
tered the  sick  chamber  Mr.  Glennie  had 
vanished,  the  table  had  been  removed, 
and,  instead  of  the  radiance  of  the  wax- 
lights,  the  cold  gleam  of  a  vapor-dim- 
med sun,  with  its  sickly  blue-white  reflex 
from  the  widespread  snow,  filled  the  room. 
The  marquis  looked  ghastly,  but  was  sip- 
ping chocolate  with  a  spoon. 

"What  w'y  are  ye  the  day,  my  lord  ?" 
asked  Malcolm. 

"Nearly  well,"  heanswered;  "butthose 
cursed  carrion-crows  are  set  upon  killing 
me — damn  their  souls  !" 

"We'll  hae  Leddy  Florimel  sweirin'  aw- 
fu'  gien  ye  gang  on  that  gait,  my  lord," 
said  Malcolm. 

The  marquis  laughed  feebly. 

"An'  what'smair,"  Malcolm  continued, 
"  I  doobt  they're  some  partic'lar  aboot 
the  turn  o'  their  phrases  up  yonncr,  my 
lord." 

The  marquis  looked  at  him  keenly, 
"  You  don't  anticipate  that  inconvenience 
for  me?"  he  said.  "I'm  pretty  sure  to 
have  my  billet  where  they're  not  so  pre- 
cise." 

"  Dinna  brak  my  hcrt,  my  lord,"  cried 
Malcolm,  the  tears  rushing  to  his  eyes. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  hurt  you,  Mal- 
calm,"  rejoined  the  marquis  gently,  al- 
most tenderly.  "I  won't  go  there  if  I 
can  help  it — I  shouldn't  like  to  break 
any  more  hearts — but  how  the  devil  am 
I  to  keep  out  of  it  ?  Besides,  there  are 
people  up  there  I  don't  want  to  meet :  I 
have  no  fancy  for  being  made  ashamed 


MALCOLM. 


273 


of  myself.  The  fact  is,  I'm  not  fit  for 
such  company,  and  I  don't  beheve  there 
is  any  such  place.  But  if  there  be,  I 
trust  in  God  there  isn't  any  other,  or  it 
will  go  badly  with  your  poor  master, 
Malcolm.  It  doesn't  look  like  true — 
now  does  it  ?  Only  such  a  multitude 
of  things  I  thought  I  had  done  with  for 
ever  keep  coming  up  and  grinning  at 
me.  It  nearly  drives  me  mad,  Malcolm ; 
and  I  would  fain  die  like  a  gentleman, 
with  a  cool  bow  and  a  sharp  face-about." 

"Wadna  ye  hae  a  word  wi'  somebody 
'at  kens,  my  lord  ?"  said  Malcolm,  scarce- 
ly able  to  reply. 

"No,"  answered  the  marquis  fiercely. 
"That  Cairns  is  a  fool." 

"He's  a'  that,  an'  mair,  my  lord.  I 
didna  mean  him.'' 

"They're  all  fools  together." 

"Ow,  na,  my  lord.  There's  a  heap  o' 
them  no  muckle  better,  it  may  be ;  but 
there's  guid  men  an'  true  amang  them, 
or  the  Kirk  wad  hae  been  wi'  Sodom 
and  Gomorrah  by  this  time.  But  it's  no 
a  minister  I  wad  hae  yer  lordship  confar 
wi'." 

"Who,  then?    Mrs.  Courthope,  eh  ?" 

"Ow  na,  my  lord — no  Mistress  Court- 
houp.  She's  a  guid  body,  but  she  wadna 
believe  her  ain  een  gien  onybody  ca'd  a 
minister  said  contrar'  to  them." 

"Who  the  devil  do  you  mean,  then?" 

"Nae  deevil,  but  an  honest  man  'at  's 
been  his  warst  enemy  sae  lang  's  I  hae 
kent  him — Maister  Graham,  the  schuil- 
maister." 

"Pooh  !"  said  the  marquis  with  a  puff. 
"  I'm  too  old  to  go  to  school." 

"I  dinna  ken  the  man  'at  isna  a  bairn 
till  him,  my  lord." 

"  In  Greek  and  Latin  ?" 

"r  richteousness  an'  trouth,  my  lord 
— in  what's  been  an'  what  is  to  be." 

"What!  has  he  the  second  sight,  like 
the  piper?" 

"  He  has  the  second  sicht,  my  lord, 
but  ane  'at  gangs  a  sicht  farther  nor  my 
auld  daddy's." 

"He  could  tell  me,  then,  what's  going 
to  become  of  me?" 

"As  weel  's  ony  man,  my  lord." 

"That's  not  saying  much,  I  fear." 

"Maybe  mair  nor  ye  think,  my  lord." 
18 


"  Well,  take  him  my  compliments  and 
tell  him  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said 
the  marquis  after  a  minute's  silence. 

"He'll  come  direckly,  my  lord." 

"Of  course  he  will,"  said  the  marquis. 

"Jist  as  readily,  my  lord,  as  he  wad 
gang  to  ony  tramp  'at  sent  for  'im  at  sic 
a  time,"  returned  Malcolm,  who  did  not 
relish  either  the  remark  or  its  tone. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  You 
don't  think  it  such  a  serious  affair,  do 
you  ?" 

"My  lord,  ye  haena  a  chance." 

The  marquis  was  dumb.  He  had  act- 
ually begun  once  more  to  buoy  himself 
up  with  earthly  hopes. 

Dreading  a  recall  of  his  commission, 
Malcolm  slipped  from  the  room,  sent 
Mrs.  Courthope  to  take  his  place,  and 
sped  to  the  schoolmaster.  The  moment 
Mr.  Graham  heard  the  marquis's  mes- 
sage he  rose  without  a  word  and  led  the 
way  from  the  cottage.  Hardly  a  sentence 
passed  between  them  as  they  went,  for 
they  were  on  a  solemn  errand. 

"Mr.  Graham's  here,  my  lord,"  said 
Malcolm. 

"Where  ?  Not  in  the  room  ?"  return- 
ed the  marquis. 

"  Waitin'  at  the  door,  my  lord." 

"  Bah  !  You  needn't  have  been  so 
ready.  Have  you  told  the  sexton  to  get 
a  new  spade  ?  But  you  may  let  him  in  ; 
and  leave  him  alone  with  me." 

Mr.  Graham  walked  gently  up  to  the 
bedside. 

"Sit  down,  sir,"  said  the  marquis 
courteously,  pleased  with  the  calm,  self- 
possessed,  unobtrusive  bearing  of  the 
man.  "They  tell  me  I'm  dying,  Mr. 
Graham." 

"  I'm  sorry  it  seems  to  trouble  you,  mv 
lord." 

"What !  wouldn't  it  trouble  you,  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,  my  lord." 

"Ah !  you're  one  of  the  elect,  no 
doubt?" 

"That's  a  thing  I  never  did  think 
about,  my  lord." 

"What  do  you  think  about,  then  ?" 

"About  God." 

"And  when  you  die  you'll  go  straight 
to  heaven,  of  course?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  lord.     That's  an- 


274 


MALCOLM. 


other  thing   I   never  trouble  my  head 
about." 

"Ah!  you're  hke  me.  then,  /don't 
care  much  about  going  to  heaven.  What 
do  you  care  about  ?" 

"The  will  of  God.  I  hope  your  lord- 
ship will  say  the  same." 

"No  I  won't:  I  want  my  own  will." 
"Well,  that  is  to  be  had,  my  lord." 
"How?" 

"By  taking  his  for  yours  as  the  better 
of  the  two,  which  it  must  be  every  way." 
"That's  all  moonshine." 
"  It  is  light,  my  lord." 
"Well,  I  don't  mind  confessing,  if  I 
am  to  die,  I  should  prefer  heaven  to  the 
other  place,  but  I  trust  I  have  no  chance 
of  either.     Do  you  now  honestly  believe 
there  are  two  such  places?" 
"I  don't  know,  my  lord." 
"You  don't  know?    And  you  come 
here  to  comfort  a  dying  man  !" 

"  Your  lordship  must  first  tell  me  what 
you  mean  by  '  two  such  places.'  And 
a?  to  comfort,  going  by  my  notions,  I 
cannot  tell  which  you  would  be  more  or 
less  comfortable  in  ;  and  that,  I  presume, 
would  be  the  main  point  with  your  lord- 
ship." 

"And  what,   pray,   sir,  would  be  the 
main  point  with  you  ?" 
"To  get  nearer  to  God." 
"Well,  I  can't  say  /want  to  get  nearer 
to  God.     It's  little  he's  ever  done  for  me." 
"  It's  a  good  deal  he  has  tried  to  do  for 
you,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  who  interfered  ?  Who  stood  in 
his  way,  then  ?" 

"Yourself,  my  lord." 
"  I  wasn't  aware  of  it.     When  did  he 
ever  try  to  do  anything  for  me  and   I 
stood  in  his  way  ?" 

"When  he  gave  you  one  of  the  love- 
liest of  women,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Gra- 
ham with  solemn,  faltering  voice,  "and 
you  left  her  to  die  in  neglect  and  her 
child  to  be  brought  up  by  strangers." 

The  marquis  gave  a  cry.  The  unex- 
pected answer  had  roused  the  slowly- 
gnawing  death  and  made  it  bite  deeper. 
"What  have  you  to  do,"  he  almost 
screamed,  "with  my  affairs?  It  was  for 
ime  to  introduce  what  I  chose  of  them. 
lYou  presume." 


"  Pardon  me,  my  lord  :  you  led  me  to 
what  I  was  bound  to  say.  Shall  I  leave 
you,  my  lord  ?" 

The  marquis  made  no  answer.  "  God 
knows  I  loved  her,"  he  said  after  a  while 
with  a  sigh. 

"You  loved  her,  my  lord  ?" 

"I  did,  by  God!" 

"  Love  a  woman  like  that  and  come  to 
this  ?" 

"  Come  to  this  ?  We  must  all  come  to 
this,  I  fancy,  sooner  or  later.  Come  to 
what,  in  the  name  of  Beelzebub  ?" 

"  That,  having  loved  a  woman  like  her, 
you  are  content  to  lose  her.  In  the  name 
of  God,  have  you  no  desire  to  see  her 
again  ?" 

"  It  would  be  an  awkward  meeting," 
said  the  marquis. 

His  was  an  old  love,  alas !  He  had 
not  been  capable  of  the  sort  that  defies 
change.  It  had  faded  from  him  until  it 
seemed  one  of  the  things  that  are  not. 
Although  his  being  had  once  glowed  in 
its  light,  he  could  now  speak  of  a  meet- 
ing as  awkward. 

"  Because  you  wronged  her  ?"  suggest- 
ed the  schoolmaster. 

"  Because  they  lied  to  me,  by  God  !" 

"Which  they  dared  not  have  done  had 
you  not  lied  to  them  first." 

"Sir!"  shouted  the  marquis,  with  all 
the  voice  he  had  left. — "O  God,  have 
mercy  !     I  cannot  punish  the  scoundrel." 

"The  scoundrel  is  the  man  who  lies, 
my  lord." 

"Were  I  anywhere  else — " 

"There  would  be  no  good  in  telling 
you  the  truth,  my  lord.  You  showed  her 
to  the  world  as  a  woman  over  whom  you 
had  prevailed,  and  not  as  the  honest  wife 
she  was.  What  kind  of  a  lie  was  that, 
my  lord  ?     Not  a  white  one,  surely  ?" 

"  You  are  a  damned  coward  to  speak 
so  to  a  man  who  cannot  even  turn  on  his 
side  to  curse  you  for  a  base  hound.  You 
would  not  dare  it  but  that  you  know  I 
cannot  defend  myself." 

"  You  are  right,  my  lord :  your  conduct 
is  indefensible." 

"By  Heaven!  if  I  could  but  get  this 
cursed  leg  under  me,  I  would  throw  you 
out  of  the  window." 

"  I    shall  go  by   the   door,   my   lord. 


MALCOLM. 


275 


While  you  hold  by  your  sins,  your  sins 
will  hold  by  you.  If  you  should  want 
me  again  I  shall  be  at  your  lordship's 
command." 

He  rose  and  left  the  room,  but  had  not 
reached  his  cottage  before  Malcolm  over- 
took him  with  a  second  message  from  his 
master.  He  turned  at  once,  saying  only, 
"I  expected  it." 

"Mr.  Graham,"  said  the  marquis,  look- 
ing ghastly, "  you  must  have  patience  with 
a  dying  man.  I  was  very  rude  to  you, 
but  I  was  in  horrible  pain." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  my  lord.  It  would 
be  a  poor  friendship  that  gave  way  for  a 
rough  word." 

"  How  can  you  call  yourself  my  friend  ?" 

"  I  should  be  your  friend,  my  lord,  if 
it  were  only  for  your  wife's  sake.  She 
died  loving  you.  I  want  to  send  you  to 
her,  my  lord.  You  will  allow  that,  as 
a  gentleman,  you  at  least  owe  her  an 
apology." 

"  By  Jove,  you  are  right,  sir !  Then 
you  really  and  positively  believe  in  the 
place  they  call  heaven  ?" 

"  My  lord,  I  believe  that  those  who  open 
their  hearts  to  the  truth  shall  see  the  light 
on  their  friends'  faces  again,  and  be  able 
to  set  right  what  was  wrong  between 
them." 

"  It's  a  week  too  late  to  talk  of  setting 
right." 

"Go  and  tell  her  you  are  sorr}^  my 
lord — that  will  be  enough  for  her." 

"Ah  !  but  there's  more  than  her  con- 
cerned." 

"You  are  right,  my  lord.  There  is  an- 
other— One  who  cannot  be  satisfied  that 
the  fairest  works  of  his  hands,  or  rather 
the  loveliest  children  of  his  heart,  should 
be  treated  as  you  have  treated  women." 

"But  the  Deity  you  talk  of — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord  :  I  talked 
of  no  deity.  I  talked  of  a  living  Love 
that  gave  us  birth  and  calls  us  his  chil- 
dren.    Your  deity  I  know  nothing  of" 

"  Call  Him  what  you  please  :  He  won't 
be  put  off  so  easily." 

"  He  Won't  be  put  off,  one  jot  or  one 
tittle.  He  will  forgive  anything,  but  He 
will  pass  nothing.  Will  your  wife  for- 
give you?" 

"She  will,  when  I  explain." 


"  Then  why  should  you  think  the  for- 
giveness of  God,  which  created  her  for- 
giveness, should  be  less  ?" 

Whether  the  marquis  could  grasp  the 
reasoning  may  be  doubtful. 

"  Do  you  really  suppose  God  cares 
whether  a  man  comes  to  good  or  ill  ?" 

"  If  He  did  not.  He  could  not  be  good 
Himself." 

"Then  you  don't  think  a  good  God 
would  care  to  punish  poor  wretches  like 
us  ?" 

"  Your  lordship  has  not  been  in  the 
habit  of  regarding  himself  as  a  poor 
wretch.  And,  remember,  you  can't  call 
a  child  a  poor  wretch  without  insulting 
the  father  of  it." 

"That's  quite  another  thing." 

"But  on  the  wrong  side  for  your  argu- 
ment, seeing  the  relation  between  God 
and  the  poorest  creature  is  infinitely 
closer  than  that  between  any  father  and 
his  child." 

"Then  He  can't  be  so  hard  on  him  as 
the  parsons  say." 

"He  will  give  him  absolute  justice, 
which  is  the  only  good  thing.  He  will 
spare  nothing  to  bring  his  children  back 
to  Himself,  their  sole  well-being.  What 
would  you  do,  my  lord,  if  you  saw  your 
son  strike  a  woman  T^ 

"  Knock  him  down  and  horsewhip 
him." 

It  v,^as  Mr.  Graham  who  broke  the  si- 
lence that  followed  :  "Are  you  satisfied 
with  yourself,  my  lord  ?" 

"No,  by  God!" 

"  You  would  like  to  be  better  ?" 

"  I  would." 

"  Then  you  are  of  the  same  mind  with 
God." 

"Yes,  but  I'm  not  a  fool.  It  won't  do 
to  say  I  should  like  to  be.  I  must  be  it, 
and  that's  not  so  easy.  It's  damned 
hard  to  be  good.  I  would  have  a  fight 
for  it,  but  there's  no  time.  How  is  a 
poor  devil  to  get  out  of  such  an  infernal  ' 
scrape  ?" 

"  Keep  the  commandments." 

"  That's  it,  of  course ;  but  there's  no 
time,  I  tell  you — no  time ;  at  least,  so 
those  cursed  doctors  will  keep  telling 
me." 

"  If  there  were  but  time  to  draw  an- 


276 


MALCOLM. 


other  breath,  there  would  be  time  to 
begin." 

"  How  am  I  to  begin  ?  Which  am  I 
to  begin  with  ?" 

"There  is  one  commandment  which 
includes  all  the  rest." 

"Which  is  that  ?" 

"To  believe  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

"That's  cant." 

"After  thirty  years'  trial  of  it,  it  is  to 
me  the  essence  of  wisdom.  It  has  given 
me  a  peace  which  makes  life  or  death 
all  but  indifferent  to  me,  though  I  would 
choose  the  latter." 

"What  am  I  to  believe  about  Him, 
then  ?" 

"You  are  to  believe  in  Him,  not  about 
Him." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"  He  is  our  Lord  and  Master,  Elder 
Brother,  King,  Saviour,  the  divine  Man, 
the  human  God :  to  believe  in  Him  is  to 
give  ourselves  up  to  Him  in  obedience — 
to  search  out  his  will  and  do  it." 

"  But  there's  no  time,  I  tell  you  again," 
the  marquis  almost  shrieked. 

"And  I  tell  you  there  is  all  eternity  to 
do  it  in.  Take  Him  for  your  master, 
and  He  will  demand  nothing  of  you 
which  you  are  not  able  to  perform.  This 
is  the  open  door  to  bliss.  With  your  last 
breath  you  can  cry  to  Him,  and  He  will 
hear  you  as  He  heard  the  thief  on  the 
cross,  who  cried  to  Him  dying  beside 
him  :  '  Lord,  remember  me  when  Thou 
comest  into  Thy  kingdom.' — 'To-day 
shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  paradise.'  It 
makes  my  heart  swell  to  think  of  it,  my 
lord.  No  cross-questioning  of  the  poor 
fellow,  no  preaching  to  him.  He  just 
took  him  with  Him  where  He  was  going, 
to  make  a  man  of  him." 

"Well,  you  know  something  of  my 
history  :  what  would  you  have  me  do 
now?—  at  once,  I  mean.  What  would 
the  Person  you  are  speaking  of  have 
me  do  ?" 

"That  is  not  for  me  to  say,  my  lord." 

"You  could  give  me  a  hint." 

"No,  God  is  telling  you  Himself. 
For  me  to  presume  to  tell  you  would  be 
to  interfere  with  Him.  What  He  would 
have  a  man  do  He  lets  him  know  in  his 
mind." 


"  But  what  if  I  had  not  made  up  my 
mind  before  the  last  came  ?" 

"Then  I  fear  He  would  say  to  you, 
'  Depart  from  me,  thou  worker  of  in- 
iquity.' " 

"  That  would  be  hard  when  another 
minute  might  have  done  it." 

"  If  another  minute  would  have  done 
it,  you  would  have  had  it." 

A  paroxysm  of  pain  followed,  during 
which  Mr.  Graham  silently  left  him. 


CHAPTER   LXX. 
END    OR   BEGINNING? 

When  the  fit  was  over  and  he  found 
Mr.  Graham  was  gone,  he  asked  Mal- 
colm, who  had  resumed  his  watch,  how 
long  it  would  take  Lady  Florimel  to 
come  from  Edinburgh. 

"  Mr.  Crathie  left  wi'  fower  horses  frae 
the  Lossie  Airnis  last  nicht,  my  lord," 
said  Malcolm  ;  "but  the  ro'ds  are  ill,  an' 
she  winna  be  here  afore  some  time  the 
morn." 

The  marquis  stared  aghast :  they  had 
sent  for  her  without  his  orders.  "  What 
shall  I  do  ?"  he  m.urmured.  "  If  once  I 
look  in  her  eyes,  I  shall  be  damned. — 
Malcolm  !" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"  Is  there  a  lawyer  in  Portlossie  ?" 

"Yes,  my  lord:  there's  auld  Maister 
Carmichael." 

"He  won't  do:  he  was  my  brother's 
rascal.     Is  there  no  one  besides  ?" 

"No  in  Portlossie,  my  lord.  There 
can  be  nane  nearer  than  Duff  Harbor,  I 
doobt." 

"Take  the  chariot  and  bring  him  here 
directly.  Tell  them  to  put  four  horses 
to  :  Stokes  can  ride  one." 

"I'll  ride  the  ither,  my  lord." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind  :  you're 
not  used  to  the  pole." 

"I  can  tak  the  leader,  my  lord." 

"I  tell  you  you're  to  do  nothing  of 
the  kind,"  cried  the  marquis  angrily. 
"You're  to  ride  inside,  and  bring  Mr. — 
what's  his  name  ? — back  with  you." 

"Soutar,  my  lord,  gien  ye  please." 

"Be  off,  then.  Don't  wait  to  feed. 
The  brutes  have  been  eating  all  day,  and 


MALCOLM. 


277 


they  can  cat  all  night.  You  must  have 
him  here  in  an  hour." 

In  an  hour  and  a  quarter  Miss  Horn's 
friend  stood  by  the  marquis's  bedside. 
Malcolm  was  dismissed,  but  was  pres- 
ently summoned  again  to  receive  more 
orders. 

^  Fresh  horses  were  put  to  the  chariot, 
and  he  had  to  set  out  once  more — this 
time  to  fetch  a  justice  of  the  peace,  a 
neighbor  laird.  The  distance  was  great- 
er than  to  Duff  Harbor ;  the  roads  were 
worse ;  the  north  wind,  rising  as  they 
went,  blew  against  them  as  they  returned, 
increasing  to  a  violent  gale  ;  and  it  was 
late  before  they  reached  Lossie  House. 

When  Malcolm  entered  he  found  the 
marquis  alone. 

"Is  Morrison  here  at  last?"  he  cried, 
in  a  feeble,  irritated  voice. 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"What  the  devil  kept  you  so  long? 
The  bay  mare  would  have  carried  me 
there  and  back  in  an  hour  and  a  half." 

"The  roads  war  verra  heavy,  my  lord. 
An'  jist  hear  till  the  win'." 

The  marquis  listened  a  moment,  and 
a  frightened  expression  grew  over  his 
thin,  pale,  anxious  face.  "You  don't 
know  what  depends  on  it,"  he  said,  "or 
you  would  have  driven  better.  Where 
is  Mr.  Soutar  ?" 

"I  dinna  ken,  my  lord.  I'm  only  jist 
come,  an'  I've  seen  naebody." 

"Go  and  tell  Mrs.  Courthope  I  want 
Soutar.  You'll  find  her  crying  some- 
where—  the  old  chicken!  —  because  I 
swore  at  her.  What  harm  could  that  do 
the  old  goose  ?" 

"  It'll  be  mair  for  love  o'  yer  lordship 
than  fricht  at  the  sweirin',  my  lord." 

"You  think  so?  Why  should  ^Z/,?  care  ? 
Go  and  tell  her  I'm  sorry.  But  really 
she  ought  to  be  used  to  me  by  this  time. 
Tell  her  to  send  Soutar  directly." 

Mr.  Soutar  was  not  to  be  found,  the 
fact  being  that  he  had  gone  to  see  Miss 
Horn.  The  marquis  flew  into  an  awful 
rage,  and  began  to  curse  and  swear 
frightfully. 

"My  lord!  my  lord!"  said  Malcolm, 
"  for  God's  sake,  dinna  gang  on  that  gait. 
He  canna  like  to  hear  that  kin'  o'  speech ; 
an'  frae  ane  o'  his  ain'  tu  !" 


The  marquis  stopped,  aghast  at  his 
presumption  and  choking  with  rage,  but 
Malcolm's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and,  in- 
stead of  breaking  out  again,  his  master 
turned  his  head  away  and  was  silent. 

Mr.  Soutar  came. 

"Fetch  Morrison,"  said  the  marquis, 
"and  go  to  bed." 

The  wind  howled  terribly  as  Malcolm 
ascended  the  stairs  and  half  felt  his  way, 
for  he  had  no  candle,  through  the  long 
passages  leading  to  his  room.  As  he  en- 
tered the  last  a  huge  vague  form  came 
down  upon  him  like  a  deeper  darkness 
through  the  dark.  Instinctively  he  step- 
ped aside.  It  passed  noiselessly,  with  a 
long  stride,  and  not  even  a  rustle  of  its 
garments — at  least  Malcolm  heard  noth 
ing  but  the  roar  of  the  wind.  He  turn- 
ed and  followed  it.  On  and  on  it  went 
down  the  stair,  through  a  corridor,  down 
the  great  stone  turnpike  stair,  and  through 
passage  after  passage.  When  it  came 
into  the  more  frequented  and  half-light- 
ed thoroughfares  of  the  house  it  showed 
as  a  large  figure  in  a  long  cloak,  indis- 
tinct in  outline. 

It  turned  a  corner  close  by  the  mar- 
quis's room.  But  when  Malcolm,  close 
at  its  heels,  turned  also,  he  saw  nothing 
but  a  vacant  lobby,  the  doors  around 
which  were  all  shut.  One  after  another 
he  quickly  opened  them,  all  except  the 
marquis's,  but  nothing  was  to  be  seen. 
The  conclusion  was  that  it  had  entered 
the  marquis's  room.  He  must  not  dis- 
turb the  conclave  in  the  sick  chamber 
with  what  might  be  but  "a  false  crea- 
tion proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed 
brain,"  and  turned  back  to  his  own  room, 
where  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed:  and 
fell  asleep. 

About  twelve  Mrs.  Courthope  called 
him  :  his  master  was  worse,  and  wanted 
to  see  him. 

The  midnight  was  dark  and  still,  for 
the  wind  had  ceased.  But  a  hush  and 
a  cloud  seemed  gathering  in  the  stillness 
and  darkness,  and  with  them  came  the 
sense  of  a  solemn  celebration,  as  if  the 
gloom  were  canopy  as  well  as  pall — 
black,  but  bordered  and  hearted  with 
purple  and  gold ;  and  the  terrible  still- 
ness seemed  to  tremble  as  with  the  in- 


278 


MALCOLM. 


audible  tones  of  a  great  organ  at  the 
close  or  commencement  of  some  mighty 
symphony. 

With  beating  heart  he  walked  softly 
toward  the  room  where,  as  on  an  altar, 
lay  the  vanishing  form  of  his  master,  like 
the  fuel  in  whose  dying  flame  was  offered 
the  late  and  ill-nurtured  sacrifice  of  his 
spirit. 

As  he  went  through  the  last  corridor 
leading  thither,  Mrs.  Catanach,  type  and 
embodiment  of  the  horrors  that  haunt 
the  dignity  of  death,  came  walking  to- 
ward him  like  one  at  home,  her  great 
round  body  lighty  upborne  on  her  soft 
foot.  It  was  no  time  to  challenge  her 
presence,  and  yielding  her  the  half  of  the 
narrow  way  he  passed  without  a  greeting. 
She  dropped  him  a  courtesy  with  an  up- 
look  and  again  a  veiling  of  her  wicked 
eyes. 

The  marquis  would  not  have  the  doc- 
tors come  near  him,  and  when  Malcolm 
entered  there  was  no  one  in  the  room  but 
Mrs.  Courthope.  The  shadow  had  crept 
far  along  the  dial.  His  face  had  grown 
ghastly,  the  skin  had  sunk  to  the  bones, 
and  his  eyes  stood  out  as  if  from  much 
staring  into  the  dark.  They  rested  very 
mournfully  on  Malcolm  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  closed  softly. 

"Is  she  come  yet?"  he  murmured, 
opening  them  wide  with  sudden  stare. 

"No,  my  lord." 

The  lids  fell  again,  softly,  slowly. 

"Be  good  to  her,  Malcolm,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"I  wull,  my  lord,"  said  Malcolm  sol- 
emnly. 

Then  the  eyes  opened  and  looked  at 
him  :  something  grew  in  them,  a  light  as 
of  love,  and  drew  up  after  it  a  tear ;  but 
the  lips  said  nothing.  The  eyelids  fell 
again,  and  in  a  minute  more  Malcolm 
knew  by  his  breathing  that  he  slept. 

The  slow  night  waned.  He  woke 
sometimes,  but  soon  dozed  off  again. 
The  two  watched  by  him  till  the  dawn. 
It  brought  a  still  gray  morning,  without 
a  breath  of  wind  and  warm  for  the  sea- 
son. The  marquis  appeared  a  little  re- 
vived, but  was  hardly  able  to  speak. 
Mostly  by  signs  he  made  Malcolm  un- 
derstand that  he  wanted  Mr.  Graham, 


but  that  some  one  else  must  go  for  him. 
Mrs.  Courthope  went. 

As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  the  room 
he  lifted  his  hand  with  effort,  laid  feeble 
hold  on  Malcolm's  jacket,  and,  drawing 
him  down,  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
Malcolm  burst  into  tears  and  sank  weep- 
ing by  the  bedside. 

Mr.  Graham,  entering  a  little  after,  and 
seeing  Malcolm  on  his  knees,  knelt  also 
and  broke  into  a  prayer. 

"O  blessed  Father!"  he  said,  "who 
knowest  this  thing,  so  strange  to  us, 
which  we  call  death,  breathe  more  life 
into  the  heart  of  Thy  dying  son,  that  in 
the  power  of  life  he  may  front  death. 
O  Lord  Christ!  who  diedst  Thyself,  and 
in  Thyself  knowest  it  all,  heal  this  man 
in  his  sore  need — heal  him  with  strength 
to  die." 

A  h'mtA/n^n  came  from  the  marquis. 

"Thou  didst  send  him  into  the  world  : 
help  him  out  of  it.  O  God  !  we  belong 
to  Thee  utterly.  We  dying  men  are  Thy 
children,  O  living  Father!  Thou  art 
such  a  father  that  Thou  takest  our  sins 
from  us  and  throwest  them  behind  Thy 
back.  Thou  cleansest  our  souls  as  Thy 
Son  did  wash  our  feet.  We  hold  our 
hearts  up  to  Thee  :  make  them  what  they 
must  be,  O  Love !  O  Life  of  men  !  O 
Heart  of  hearts !  Give  Thy  dying  child 
courage  and  hope  and  peace — the  peace 
of  Him  who  overcame  all  the  terrors  of 
humanity,  even  death  itself,  and  liveth 
for  evermore,  sitting  at  Thy  right  hand, 
our  God-brother,  blessed  to  all  ages. 
Amen." 

"Amen  !"  murmured  the  marquis,  and, 
slowly  lifting  his  hand  from  the  coverlid, 
he  laid  it  on  the  head  of  Malcolm,  who 
did  not  know  it  was  the  hand  of  his  fa- 
ther blessing  him  ere  he  died. 

"Be  good  to  her,"  said  the  marquis 
once  more. 

But  Malcolm  could  not  answer  for 
weeping,  and  the  marquis  was  not  satis- 
fied. Gathering  all  his  force,  he  said 
again,  "Be  good  to  her." 

"  I  wull,  I  wull,''*  burst  from  Malcolm 
in  sobs ;  and  he  wailed  aloud. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  the  afternoon 
came.  Still  Lady  Florimel  had  not  ar- 
rived, and  still  the  marquis  lingered. 


MALCOLM. 


279 


As  the  gloom  of  the  twihght  was  deep- 
ening into  the  early  darkness  of  the  win- 
ter night  he  opened  wide  his  eyes,  and 
was  evidently  listening.  Malcolm  could 
hear  nothing,  but  the  light  in  his  mas- 
ter's face  grew  and  the  strain  of  his  lis- 
tening diminished.  At  length  Malcolm 
became  aware  of  the  sound  of  wheels, 
which  came  rapidly  nearer,  till  at  last  the 
carriage  swung  up  to  the  hall-door.  A 
moment,  and  Lady  Florimel  was  flitting 
across  the  room. 

"Papa!  papa!"  she  cried,  and,  throw- 
ing her  arm  over  him,  laid  her  cheek  to 
his. 

The  marquis  could  not  return  her  em- 
brace :  he  could  only  receive  her  into 
the  depths  of  his  shining,  tearful  eyes. 

"Flory!"  he  murmured,  "I'm  going 
away.  I'm  going —  I've  got — to  make 
an — apology.     Malcolm,  be  good — " 

The  sentence  remained  unfinished. 
The  light  paled  from  his  countenance : 
he  had  to  carry  it  with  him.  He  was 
dead. 

Lady  Florimel  gave  a  loud  cry.  Mrs. 
Courthope  ran  to  her  assistance.  "My 
lady's  in  a  dead  faint,"  she  whispered, 
and  left  the  room  to  get  help. 

Malcolm  lifted  Lady  Florimel  in  his 
great  arms  and  bore  her  tenderly  to  her 
own  apartment.  There  he  left  her  to 
the  care  of  her  women  and  returned  to 
the  chamber  of  death. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Graham  and  Mr.  Soutar 
had  come.  When  Malcolm  re-entered 
the  schoolmaster  took  him  kindly  by  the 
arm  and  said,  "Malcolm,  there  can  be 
neither  place  nor  moment  fitter  for  the 
solemn  communication  I  am  commis- 
sioned to  make  to  you  :  I  have,  as  in  the 
presence  of  your  dead  father,  to  inform 
you  that  you  are  now  marquis  of  Lossie  ; 
and  God  forbid  you  should  be  less  worthy 
as  marquis  than  you  have  been  as  fisher- 
man !" 

Malcolm  stood  stupefied.  For  a  while 
he  seemed  to  himself  to  be  turning  over 
in  his  mind  something  he  had  heard  read 
from  a  book,  with  a  nebulous  notion  of 
being  somehow  concerned  in  it.  The 
thought  of  his  father  cleared  his  brain. 
He  ran  to  the  dead  body,  kissed  its  lips 
as  he  had  once  kissed  the  forehead  of 


another,  and  falling  on  his  knees  wept, 
he  knew  not  for  what.  Presently,  how- 
ever, he  recovered  himself,  rose,  and, 
rejoining  the  two  men,  said,  "Gentle- 
men, hoo  mony  kens  this  turn  o'  things  ?" 

"None  but  Mr.  Morrison,  Mrs.  Cata- 
nach  and  ourselves — so  far  as  I  know," 
answered  Mr.  Soutar. 

"And  Miss  Horn,"  added  Mr.  Graham. 
"  She  first  brought  out  the  truth  of  it,  and 
ought  to  be  the  first  to  know  of  your 
recognition  by  your  father." 

"  I  s'  tell  her  mysel.',"  returned  Mal- 
colm. "  But,  gentlemen,  I  beg  o'  ye,  till 
I  ken  what  I'm  aboot  an'  gie  ye  leave, 
dinna  open  yer  moo'  to  leevin'  cratur' 
aboot  this.  There's  time  eneuch  for  the 
warl'  to  ken  't." 

"Your  lordship  commands  me,"  said 
Mr.  Soutar. 

"Yes,  Malcolm,  until  you  give  me 
leave,"  said  Mr.  Graham. 

"Whaur's  Mr.  Morrison?"  asked  Mal- 
colm. 

"He  is  still  in  the  house,"  said  Mr, 
Soutar. 

"Gang  till  him,  sir,  an'  gar  him  prom- 
ise, on  the  word  o'  a  gentleman,  to  baud 
his  tongue.  I  canna  bide  to  hae't  blaret 
a'  gait  an'  a'  at  ance.  For  Mistress  Cat- 
anach,  I  s'  deal  wi'  her  mysel'." 

The  door  opened,  and,  in  all  the  con- 
scious dignity  conferred  by  the  immuni- 
ties and  prerogatives  of  her  calling,  Mrs. 
Catanach  walked  into  the  room. 

"A  word  wi'  ye.  Mistress  Catanach," 
said  Malcolm. 

"Certainly,  my  lord,"  answered  the 
howdy  with  mingled  presumption  and 
respect,  and  followed  him  to  the  dining- 
room.  "Weel,  my  lord — "  she  began, 
before  he  had  turned  from  shutting  the 
door  behind  them,  in  the  tone  and  with 
the  air — or  rather  airs — of  having  con- 
ferred a  great  benefit,  and  expecting  its 
recognition. 

"Mistress  Catanach,"  interrupted  Mal- 
colm, turning  and  facing  her,  "gien  I  be 
un'er  ony  obligation  to  yop,  it 's  frae  an- 
ither  tongue  I  maun  hear 't.  But  I  hae 
an  offer  to  mak  ye :  Sae  lang  as  it  disna 
coom  oot  'at  I'm  onything  better  nor  a 
fisherman  born,  ye  s'  hae  yer  twinty 
poun'  i'  the  year,  peyed  ye  quarterly. 


28o 


MALCOLM. 


But  the  moment  fowk  says  vvha  I  am  ye 
touch  na  a  poun'-not'  mair,  an'  I  coont 
mysel'  free  to  pursue  onything  1  can  pruv 
agane  ye." 

Mrs.  Catanach  attempted  a  laugh  of 
scorn,  but  her  face  was  gray  as  putty  and 
its  muscles  declined  response. 

''Ay  or  no?''  said  Malcolm.  "I  winna 
gar  ye  sweir,  for  I  wad  lippen  to  yer  aith 
no  a  hair." 

"Ay,  my  lord,"  said  the  howdy,  reas- 
suming  at  least  outward  composure,  and 
with  it  her  natural  brass,  for  as  she  spoke 
she  held  out  her  open  palm. 

"Na,  na,"  said  Malcolm,  "nae  forhan' 
payments.  Three  months  o'  tongue- 
haudin',  an'  there's  yer  five  poun' ;  an' 
Maister  Soutar  o'  Duff  Harbor  'ill  pay  't 
intill  yer  ain  han'.  But  brack  troth  wi' 
me,  an'  ye  s'  hear  o'  't;  for  gien  ye  war 
hangt  the  warl'  wad  be  a'  the  cleaner. 
Noo  quit  the  hoose,  an'  never  lat  me  see 
ye  aboot  the  place  again.  But  afore  ye 
gang  I  gie  ye  fair  warnin'  'at  I  mean  to 
win  at  a'  yer  byganes." 

The  blood  of  red  wrath  was  seething 
in  Mrs.  Catanach's  face :  she  drew  her- 
self up  and  stood  flaming  before  him,  on 
the  verge  of  explosion. 

"Gang  frae  the  hoose,"  said  Malcolm, 
"or  I'll  set  the  muckle  hun'  to  shaw  ye 
the  gait." 

Her  face  turned  the  color  of  ashes,  and 
with  hanging  cheeks  and  scared  but  not 
the  less  wicked  eyes  she  hurried  from  the 
room.  Malcolm  watched  her  out  of  the 
house,  then,  following  her  into  the  town, 
brought  Miss  Horn  back  with  him  to  aid 
in  the  last  earthly  services,  and  hastened 
to  Duncan's  cottage. 

But,  to  his  amazement  and  distress,  it 
was  forsaken  and  the  hearth  cold.  In 
his  attendance  on  his  father  he  had  not 
seen  the  piper — he  could  not  remember 
for  how  many  days ;  and  on  inquiry  he 
found  that,  although  he  had  not  been 
missed,  no  one  could  recall  having  seen 


him  later  than  three  or  four  days  agone. 
The  last  he  could  hear  of  him  was  that 
about  a  week  before  a  boy  had  spied  him 
sitting  on  a  rock  in  the  Baillies'  Barn  with 
his  pipes  in  his  lap.  Searching  the  cot- 
tage, he  found  that  his  broadsword  and 
dirk,  with  all  his  poor  finery,  were  gone. 

That  same  night  Mrs.  Catanach  also 
disappeared. 

A  week  after,  what  was  left  of  Lord 
Lossie  was  buried.  Malcolm  followed 
the  hearse  with  the  household.  Miss 
Horn  walked  immediately  behind  him, 
on  the  arm  of  the  schoolmaster.  It  was 
a  great  funeral,  with  a  short  road,  for  the 
body  was  laid  in  the  church — close  to  the 
wall,  just  under  the  crusader  with  the 
Norman  canopy. 

Lady  Florimel  wept  incessantly  for 
three  days ;  on  the  fourth  she  looked  out 
on  the  sea  and  thought  it  very  dreary ; 
on  the  fifth  she  found  a  certain  gratifica- 
tion in  hearing  herself  called  the  mar- 
chioness ;  on  the  sixth  she  tried  on  her 
mourning  and  was  pleased  ;  on  the  sev- 
enth she  went  with  the  funeral  and  wept 
again  ;  on  the  eighth  came  Lady  Bellair, 
who  on  the  ninth  carried  her  away. 

To  Malcolm  she  had  not  spoken  once. 

Mr.  Graham  left  Portlossie. 

Miss  Horn  took  to  her  bed  for  a  week. 

Mr.  Crathie  removed  his  office  to  the 
House  itself,  took  upon  him  the  function 
of  steward  as  well  as  factor,  had  the 
state-rooms  dismantled,  and  was  master 
of  the  place. 

Malcolm  helped  Stoat  with  the  horses 
and  did  odd  jobs  for  Mr.  Crathie.  From 
his  likeness  to  the  old  marquis,  as  he 
was  still  called,  the  factor  had  a  favor 
for  him,  firmly  believing  the  said  mar- 
quis to  be  his  father  and  Mrs.  Stewart 
his  mother;  and  hence  it  came  that  he 
allowed  him  a  key  to  the  library. 

The  story  of  Malcom's  plans  and  yhat 
came  of  them  requires  another  book. 


I^OIFTJ.LJ^I?,     nsrO^V^ELS 


PUBLISHED     BY 


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MUST  IT  BE? 

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ARTICLE  47. 

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C  O  NT  ENTS. 


VOZVJflE  I.  Life  of  George  Stephenson  ;  Picciola, 
or  the  Prison  Flower:  Abyssinia  and  Theodore  ;  Cases 
of  Circumstantial  Evidence ;  Home  Plants,  Water 
Animals,  and  the  Aquarium ;  Anecdotes  of  Dogs ; 
Poems  of  Domestic  Affections,  etc. 

VOLUME  II.  Journal  of  a  Poor  Vicar  ;  Romance 
of  Geology  :  Larocbejaquelin  and  the  War  in  La  Ven- 
dee ;  Anecdotes  of  the  Horse  ;  Curiosities  of  Vegeta- 
tion ;  Children  of  lhe  Wilds ;  Select  Poems  on  Love 
of  Flowers,  etc. 

TOI  TIME  III.  Life  of  Nelson  ;  Story  of  the  Indian 
Mutiny  ;  Story  of  'jilvio  Pelico  ;  William  Tell  and  Swit- 
lerland  ;  The  H  ;rring  and  the  Whale  ;  Scottish  Tra- 
ditionary Stories    Selections  from  American  Poetry,  etc. 

VOLUME  ir,  Wallace  and  Bruce;  Anecdotes  of 
Ants  ;  The  Sh'p'Teck  of  the  Medusa  ;  The  History  of 
Poland;  Arct' ;  Explorations  ;  Flora  Macdonald,  etc. 

VOL  UME  V.  Louis  Napoleon,  Emperor  of  the 
French  ;  Lee  is  Power  ;  Anecdotes  of  Spiders  ;  The 
Plague  in  I  ondon  ;  Narrative  of  the  Mutiny  of  the 
Bounty  ;  Select  Poetry  of  Scott,  etc. 

VOLUME  ri.  Captain  Cook;  Earthquakes  and 
Volcanoes  ;  Anecdotes  of  the  Deaf,  Dumb,  and  Blind  ; 
Richard  F  ilconer ;  History  of  the  Mormons ;  The 
Scottish  A  Iventurers ;  Walter  Ruysdael  ;  Poems  of 
Kindness  t5  Animals,  etc. 

VOLUME  VII.  Joan  of  Arc,  Maid  of  Orleans; 
Annals  of  the  Poor  ;  Gold  and  Gold  Diggers ;  There 
is  no  Hur"/  ! — A  Tale  ;  Anecdotes  of  Elephants  ;  The 
Russian  (.arapaign :  The  Ancient  Mariner,  and  other 
Poems,  e:c 

VOLUME  VIII.  Life  of  Washington:  Hindooisra  ; 
Intellige  it  Negroes  ;  Visit  to  Shetland  ;  Story  of  Lava- 
let  te  ;  Religious  Impostors;  Wonders  and  Curiosities 
of  Archi  ecture  ;  Chevy  Chase,  etc. 

VOLUME  IX.  William,  Prince  of  Orange ;  Anec- 
dotes of  >he  Cat  and  the  Rat ;  The  Sun  ;  Story  of  Col- 
bert ;  Happy  Families  of  Animals  ;  The  Moors  in  Spain  ; 
The  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask ;  Visit  to  Vesuvius  and 
Pompeii,  etc. 

VOLUME  X.  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott ;  Wonders 
and  Curiositi.;s  of  Civil  Engineering;  Life  Assurance  ; 
Passion  and  Principle  ;  Madame  Roland ;  The  Nor- 
man Conquest ;  Selections  from  Shakespeare,  etc. 

VOLUME  XI.  Life  of  Peter  the  Great;  The  Stran- 
ger's Visit  to  Edinburgh  ;  Wonders  of  the  Microscope  ; 
The  Persicui'ons  in  Scotland;  The  Christmas  Holi- 
day, etc 


VOL  UME  XII.  Life  of  Columbus ;  Stories  of  Aims 
and  Ends;  A  Lord  Provost's  Holiday;  Story  of  a 
French  Prisoner  of  War  in  England;  Henry  Armand 
and  the  Waldenses ;  Stories  of  Heroism  in  Humble 
Life ;  Sir  Stamford  Raffles  and  the  Malayan  Archi- 
pelago, etc. 

VOL  UME  XIII.    The  Life  of  Henry  IV.  of  France ; 

Anecdotes  of  Serpents ;  Story  of  Alexander  Andrayne ; 
France:  its  Revolutions  and  Misfortunes;  The  Mont- 
yon  Prizes;  The  Three  Ways  of  Living,  etc 

VOLUME  XIV.  Life  of  Howard;  Names  of  Per- 
sons; The  Magic  Flute;  Why  the  Sea  is  Salt;  Ac- 
count of  the  Gypsies;  Stories  of  Woman's  Trials  in 
Humble  Life;  Selections  from  French  and  German 
Poetry,  etc 

VOL  UME  XV.  Life  of  William  Hutton  ;  Pearls  and 
Pearl  Fisheries;  Gustavus  Adolphus  and  the  Thirty 
Years' War;  The  Sister  of  Rembrandt;  Eminent  As- 
tronomers ;  Poems  on  Birds,  etc 

VOLUME  XVI.  Life  of  William  Penn;  The  Cm 
sades ;  Anecdotes  of  Shoemakers;  Monuments  of 
Unrecorded  Ages;  Speculative  Manias,  etc 

VOL  UME  X  VII.  Life  of  James  Watt ;  The  Little 
Captive  King:  The  Pilgrim  Fathers;  History  of  the 
Bastile ;  Anecdotes  of  the  Early  Painters;  Life  of 
Alexander  Selkirk  ;  The  Wooden  Spoon ;  The  Tin- 
toretto ;  History  of  Will  and  Jean. 

VOLUME  XVIII.  Sir  William  Jones;  Dr.  John 
Leyden  ;  Dr.  Alexander  Murray;  Alexander  Wilson ; 
Excursion  to  the  Oregon ;  The  Friendly  Arrest — A 
Tale  ;  The  British  Conquest  of  Intiia  ;  The  Old  Witch- 
crafts ;  Conquest  of  Mexico;  The  Stranger's  Visit  to 
London  ;  Poems  on  Insects. 

VOLUME  XIX.  Life  of  Oberiin ;  Scenes  from 
Peasant  Life  in  Norway ;  Quentin  Matsys ;  Life  and 
Travels  of  Biickhardt ;  Leon  Gondy :  a  Legend  of 
Ghent ;  Rob  Roy  and  the  Clan  Macgregor;  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture  and  Hayti ;  JimCronin;  Songs  of  i^ome 
and  Fatherland. 

VOLUME  XX.  L  Count  Rnmford.  I L  The  Guer- 
rilla. III.  History  of  the  Jews  in  England.  IV.  Ar- 
nold and  Andre.  V.  African  Discovery.  VI.  The 
Hope  of  Leascombe;  a  Tale.  VII.  Spectral  lUuriona. 
VIII.  Selections  from  the  Elizabethan  Poets. 


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CHAmS'S  BOOK  OF  OI!S, 

A  Miscellany  of  Poiiular  Antiquities  in  connec- 
tion with  the  Calendar. 

INCLUDING 

ANECDOTE,  BIOGRAPHY  AND  HISTORY,  CURI^ 

OSITIES  OF  LITERATURE,  AND  ODDITIES 

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ly, Popular  Notions  and  Observances  connected 
witli  Times  and  Seasons. 
IV,  notable   Events,   ISlof/raphies  and  Anec- 
dotes  Connected  with  the  Days  of  the 
Yea  r. 
V,  Articles  of  Popular  Archceoloffi/,  of  an  en- 
tertaining   character,    tending   to    Illustrate   the 
Progress   of   Civilization,    Manners,    Literature 
and  Ideas. 
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_.__  JUN  3 1 1984  "  i  J 


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